The Secretary
by Spectographer
Summary: "The best secretary in Manhattan and it never occurred to you to ask this woman where she came from?" The Assistant US Attorney almost sounds amused, as if she believes Harvey is being deliberately thick. "Donnas aren't born, Harvey, they're made, and all the things she does that you're so fond of, she did for someone else before you." AU
1. Everybody Gets A Subpoena

I

Midtown, to Harvey Specter, is depressing enough without having to endure the repetitious jingle of a jackhammer slamming away at the pavement outside the room he sits in. A "conference room" is what the receptionist called it, but the dingy refrigerator humming at the corner and strong smell of curry wafting through the air has him suspecting otherwise. And worse, he can actually _see_ people outside the windows, street casual tourists — a grim, almost literal reminder of how far down the firm has fallen. A third floor, Midtown client. He can't possibly think of anything worse.

"Remind me again why I'm here."

Mike Ross swivels around, the motion letting out a deafening squeal from the base of his chair. "For the clinic, which you said when I signed on —"

"I know what I said. And I meant I'd help with money, not my time — and especially not with my suits." Harvey lifts the underside of his jacket cuff up toward the fluorescents. "What is this? Ketchup?"

"Could be blood." Mike shrugs. "Probably won't come out either way."

"Goddamnit, Mike."

"Chill, Harvey. It's just a suit."

"This _suit_ is worth more than the company we're defending."

"Probably." Mike says and leans in to add, "Now can you please pretend to have a heart for five seconds?"

Before Harvey can reply, shouts of greeting announce in the doorway the arrival of the Stavros brothers, David and Charlie, and their CFO, Donald Something-Or-Other. They shake hands, they laugh, they undo the buttons on their untailored Ralph Lauren jackets and take their squeaky seats.

The older Stavros, whether David or Charlie, Harvey can't be certain, looks through the lenses of thick, horn-rim glasses, first at Mike and then to Harvey, and says, rather seriously compared to the joyous mood he entered with: "We looked over the settlement you boys sent over, and pardon my language, but we feel you got us a shit deal."

Harvey awards the man's bravado with a thin smile. "Is that so?"

Young Stavros clicks his pen nervously, once, twice, _click-click-click._ Donald adjusts his cheap tie, pulling it too far to the left.

"You're partners at Pearson Specter Litt." Stavros tosses a stack of papers across the table. They fall in front of Mike and Harvey with a punctuating plop. "You can do better than this."

"Which part of the deal are you not satisfied with?" Mike asks. Harvey knows the kid has the settlement memorized front-to-back and could recite it verbatim, but Mike theatrically leafs through the document anyway.

"The payout, for a start," Older Stavros says. "Our company is worth considerably more."

"To you maybe," Harvey says. "But to everyone else your company isn't worth shit."

"Compared to the Fortune 500 companies you work for, Mr. Specter, I would have to agree, but an extra hundred thousand would make a huge difference to us. Is that too much to ask?"

"The offer in front of you was too much to ask."

"This _offer_ is an insult."

"That's life. Dog eat dog."

"You think? Because what _I_ think is you wouldn't be so dismissive if we were paying clients."

"Do I need to remind you how you got yourselves into this mess?" Harvey leans forward in his seat with an authority that causes the men sitting before him to shrink back. " _You_ borrowed more money than you could afford and what we're proposing is the best you're going to get considering. Now if you have a problem with how we're handling things, by all means _,_ seek other council. Perhaps Hendricks and Keller? They're probably the cheapest debt settlement attorneys you're going to get this side of Manhattan and even then I doubt you'll come out in the positive."

 _"_ Harvey." Mike's sternness is lukewarm, but Harvey winds it down regardless. He's done his part. If the idiots won't take the deal, that's on them. And Stavros, dense as he is, has a point, it's not like they're paying.

In an attempt to soften Harvey's blow, Mike says, "Look guys, your competitor dominates 95% of the market. This deal really is the best you're going to get."

"Dominated," Donald corrects. "ReachTek's stock plunged 30% just in the last hour."

This catches both attorneys off guard. A self-satisfied eyebrow lifts behind Older Stavros' spectacles. "You didn't know? The US Attorney issued the subpoenas this morning. ReachTek is rumored to be mixed up with the Duke-Sanger Illegal Arms Scandal."

Harvey nods slowly, awareness striking him. "And your stock?"

"Through the roof. Now are you going to get us a better deal or not?"

Harvey rises, pulling Mike up with him. "We'll look into it. But if what you're saying is true, you might not have to sell at all."

II

When Harvey gets back to the office he finds his secretary standing barefoot on top of his cabinets, one hand reaching up to the brim of a picture window, her calves sleek and corded from the strain of the weight at her tip-toes. His office smells faintly of her perfume, a scent she swapped out a few years ago and he hadn't realized how much he missed it until she began wearing it again. It touches something deeply cerebral in him. His shoulders relax and whatever stress he came in with seems to dissolve into something more manageable.

"Bugging my new office?" he asks, coming round to take a seat at the edge of his desk. He feels a small, twisting ache in his chest as she dances too close to the edge and has to fight his instinct to wrap his hands around her waist and be her support.

Donna glances down at him through a tumble of red hair, one pristinely plucked brow raised. "Don't be silly, Harvey. I bugged this office _years_ ago."

He sees now that she has a tape measure clasped to the neckline of her dress and, of course, she answers his question before he even has to ask it: "The carpenter is coming today. I thought we could get a new set of cabinets for your balls."

"What's wrong with Jessica's old cabinets?" Mikes pipes in, strutting into the office with two fresh cups of coffee and the New York Times Business pages pinned beneath his arm.

"I was thinking walnut," Donna continues, ignoring the young lawyer, "but stained oak might work well in here."

"I always liked mahogany," Harvey tells her.

"And that is why _I_ am making this decision and _you_ are not." She surveys the floor, ready to climb down and Harvey offers her his hand. There is a moment of hesitation, long enough for him to regret the gesture, and she grabs his shoulder instead as she takes her leap. "So how did the meeting go?"

"Does it matter?" Harvey grabs one of the coffees off the Mike and takes a swig. Expecting a bitter kick, he instead gets a mouth full of frothy whip cream laced with something sweet and nutty like cinnamon.

"That…" Mike starts and then pauses, watching the cup sail into the trash. "Was for Rachel…"

" _That_ was disgusting and she can thank me later."

Donna, doing an inelegant wobble on one foot in an attempt to strap on her Jimmy Choo, presses on, "Of course it matters. It was your first meeting as managing partner."

"For a pro bono client, which doesn't count." Harvey shrugs, trying to come off apathetic, but the red-head sees straight through him.

"You screwed it up, didn't you?"

"No." He glares at his secretary. Feeling childish but needing to defend himself, he adds, "Mike screwed it up."

"Oh, so I'm just _supposed_ to know their main competitor was going to get subpoenaed this morning?"

"Yes. Because that's what I pay you to know."

The door pops open then. Louis is there, his canary-yellow tie rising and falling on his chest in sync with his labored breathing. "Harvey— _thank god_ ," he says. "We have a crisis."

"Is it a real crisis, Louis? Because I swear, if you're bursting in here to tell me we're out of fiber bars in the break room—"

"The justice department just subpoenaed three of our clients."

Harvey freezes. His lips thin into a hard line. "What the hell for?"

Not letting the mistake slide by him again, Mike ventures, "Duke-Sanger?"

Louis nods, a frantic bobble-head, chest puffed out like a distraught central park pigeon. "It's not just our clients either. Rand, Kaldor, Zane. Bratton Gould. Chupasko & Balderson. It's like goddamn Watergate."

Mike's eyes widen and he sets them on the managing partner sitting rigidly at the edge of his desk. "Harvey, we don't have the man power to fight these if they become cases."

The older man nods, feeling the weight of everyone's gaze and more so, the weight of firm. It presses against him, sinking into his gut. He is a balloon beneath a child's foot, stretched thin and misshapen. _Was this how Jessica felt?_ He wonders, pinned down beneath a dirty chuck, forced to spill out of her parameters. _God,_ if he could just be half the leader she was…

"The DoJ must not have anything concrete on Duke-Sanger," Harvey says with a calm he does not feel. "They're turning over every rock they can find, is all. We'll ride this out. In the meantime, I want a copy of every document they've subpoenaed. If there is any damning evidence I want to know about it before they do. And Mike—"

Someone clears their throat. Louis whirls around to face a man wearing a Knicks cap and a paint splattered plaid. "Who the hell are you?" he demands.

"I'm looking for Donna Paulsen."

"It's the carpenter," the red-head tells them, to the man she adds, "Would you mind giving us a minute?"

"Actually, I'm here to serve you this." He holds out a document. Harvey crosses the room in two great strides and snatches it from his hand.

From over his shoulder, Donna asks, "What is it, Harvey?"

"Anita Gibbs..." Harvey stares down at the document, reading and rereading its content in disbelief. When he looks back at Donna, his dark eyes are a gloss lacquer with a furnace blazing behind them. "She's summoning you to a deposition tomorrow morning."

" _Gibbs_?" The assistant U.S. attorney's name seems to hit Mike like a punch to the groin. "What does she want with Donna?"

"Apparently, she also holds valuable information regarding Duke-Sanger."

Louis steps further into the office, his chest even more inflated than before. The button beneath his lapel is certainly quivering at the added tension and his bottom lip quivers with it. He is either about to lash out in a fit of anger or burst into tears, and with the current state of Louis' emotions, Harvey suspects some catastrophic combination of both.

"That's bullshit!" Louis shouts. "She's going after Donna because of this fraud again, isn't she?" He lunges toward Mike but Harvey steps in his way, an immovable wall for him to crash his rage into.

"Louis," he says firmly. "You need to calm down."

"I WILL NOT—"

"Louis." Donna is at the enraged partner's elbow, and where Harvey is a wall, she is a shore that Louis anger falls flat against. He is an unthreatening puddle at her high-heeled feet. "It's not Mike's fault," she says. Her face is impressively blank, her voice surprisingly cool. Remembering the panic she expressed the last time she was subpoenaed, this placidity is not what Harvey was expecting. It's like she has become desensitized. Battle hardened. There are no frantic eyes searching out his, begging to be comforted. And although Harvey isn't the comforting type, he shamefully wishes she would cave. He needs her to need him.

"I used be a secretary at Duke-Sanger," she confesses.

Harvey knows this; although it has never been explicitly spoken of. It is like an ex-lover that he would rather pretend never existed and so they've always tip-toed around the subject.

Louis shakes his head, bewildered. "When?"

"Before Harvey."

 _Before Harvey_. The statement seems to wash over the men like a cold wave. A Donna existed _before_ Harvey? They just cannot fathom it.

"Maybe this is a good thing," Mike says, hesitating briefly under Harvey's scowl. "It confirms what you said—they're obviously desperate for information, and Donna's just another rock to turn over."

"You think Gibbs is going around deposing every secretary Duke-Sanger has had in the past fifteen years?" Being smart enough to know the question is rhetorical, Mike keeps his mouth shut, and Harvey continues, "Louis is right. This is personal. She must have seen Donna's name on a list and saw an opportunity to piss me off."

"So what are we going to do?" Mike asks, eager, probably even excited. Battling the DoJ on three separate cases, the fate of the firm hanging in the balance, Louis' suit button holding on by a single thread—this is why he took the job.

"You and Louis are going to find out everything you can about Duke-Sanger and this illegal arms scandal," Harvey tells him. "I'll handle Gibbs."

The two partners nod and leave the room. Harvey is finally able to let his stiff posture relax a little. His expression softens, and he says to Donna, "You don't need to be worried."

"I'm not worried," she tells him. "But I think it's a bad idea to go after Gibbs."

"Donna." His voice is a warning. "She can't just subpoena you because she feels like it."

"She can and she did. What she can't do is force you to react."

"So what am I supposed to do? Let her get away with it?"

"Is that so bad?"

"It puts you at risk."

" _How?"_ She gives him a moment to respond, knowing full well he doesn't have an answer beyond his illogical, masculine need to protect what's his. _"_ I don't know anything. I was a floor secretary. I hardly saw the outside of my cubicle the whole time I was at Duke-Sanger."

Harvey feels he is losing, but the mention of her past cubicle annoys him, so he bangs on. "Gibbs is a snake, Donna. She'll find a way."

"No, Harvey, she won't. You're managing partner now and I'm sorry, but you can't just drop everything and start throwing punches because someone pissed you off. Your job is here. If I find that I need an attorney, I'll call Rachel."

And with that she is walking out and there is just too much finality to it. It makes him uneasy, and so he calls after her: "Donna, wait."

She turns. Waits.

 _I'm sorry,_ is what he would tell her if he could. _I'm sorry I put you in this position._ But he's worried this will make her realize that this isn't the first time he's put her in a position like this, and likely not the last. She'll start thinking again on how she wants more, and he's terrified that this more means something else, somewhere else and he can't stand the thought of losing her.

"We should go with walnut," he tells her. "For the cabinets..."

"Walnut it is." She smiles, and this is exactly what he needed to ease him enough to let her go. "And this isn't your fault Harvey," she adds. "There's no need to be sorry."

III

The firm is still lit at half past eleven. Harvey is at his desk, sifting through an endless pile of documents when Mike appears at his door, tie undone, hair sticking out haphazardly. "This is bigger than we thought," the kid says. He falls onto the couch, splays out, kicks his feet up on the coffee table and waits for Harvey's attention.

"All right." Harvey leans back in his chair. "Lets have it."

"They've been financing a weapons manufacture in India-one that sells to Iran, which has been under an arms embargo since-"

"2006," Harvey cuts in. "Tell me something the six o'clock news doesn't know."

"Seventeen companies are being investigated. Four have been charged. They're saying the mastermind behind it is Johnathan Martell."

"Never heard of him," Harvey admits, which is strange because he knows everyone who is anyone in Manhattan. The fact that someone has gone under his radar is unsettling. "Who is he?"

"Currently he's some sort of independent contractor, but it's suspiciously unclear of what exactly he's contracted for. He was hired as an actuary at Duke-Sanger in 1999 after graduating from MIT with a masters in finance. Dude is apparently some kind of math genius and even more of an asshole than you are by the sound of things, but that's probably because his only child died and his wife left him - it's kind of a sad story actually."

"Spare me the tears." Harvey rises and makes his way over to the bar cart. "What else?"

"Nothing really." Mike lays his head back on the couch and looks up at the ceiling, reciting from memory: "He's 43, fire sign, plays the piano, grew up in some town called Wethersfield-"

Harvey pauses, scotch decanter in hand. "Wethersfield, Connecticut?"

"Yessir." Mike shifts his head and stares at Harvey through puffy, bloodshot eyes. "Is that important?"

"Donna lived in Wethersfield as a girl."

Mike hums, offering tiredly, "Small world."

"Yeah." Harvey agrees, but the lawyer in him realizes the world really isn't that small and something like this is too coincidental to be a coincidence.


	2. Not Her First, Or Her Worst

**A/N: Thank you guys so much for reading and reviewing my first chapter! I really appreciate it!**

I

The Assistant U.S. Attorney doesn't tell Donna to take a seat when she enters. Probably because she shouldn't have to; Donna has become well acquainted with the lone chair situated in front of the intimidatingly large desk and sits there as if she's entitled to it.

Anita Gibbs' strategy is silence. A boundless quiet Donna is meant to spend squirming in anticipation of the interrogation she'll be receiving. Instead, Donna focuses on the sound of the radio in the background—Maurice Ravel's Bolero is rising in a continuous crescendo—and then the pictures behind the desk catch her attention: a collage of Gibbs' grandkids. One does soccer, another plays cello. The oldest has graduated Jr. High by the looks of it. She has Gibbs' small, thin lipped mouth and it's wilting under the force of a long held smile. _Just take the picture!_ Her eyes are saying. There is a quote above the collage: Family is Forever. Very large. Very bolded. It feels to Donna like a command rather than a heartwarming inspirational quote, and she finds herself thinking of Harvey, who is the closest she has to family at the moment. She entertains the idea of spending eternity with him, stuck forever in a will-he-won't-he limbo, and finds this horrifying.

She begins to squirm.

As if on cue, Gibbs raises her eyes from the paperwork in front of her—sharp, blue, inquisitive eyes that become fixed on Donna from behind a barrier of rectangular reading glasses. She asks Donna how she's doing. She says fine. She asks if she's been staying out of trouble, and Donna finds this odd question, not just because it makes her feel a bit like a child, but because she's sitting in the U.S. Attorney's office, obviously in some kind of trouble, but she gives the affirmative and the conversation moves forward.

With the formalities now out of the way, Gibbs takes out her tape recorder. Her face has grown solemn, her tone grave. "You're on a sinking ship, Donna," she says (Donna appreciates the metaphor—this is exactly how she feels). "Crooked father. Crooked Boss. Can't say I was surprised to find out about your link to Jonathan Martell. And, you know, it makes me wonder…" Gibbs leans forward, her voice lowered as if to conspire, "What if I was wrong about Harvey Specter? What if he isn't the masterful criminal I thought he was, but more of a puppet on a string. _What if_ this whole time I've been after the wrong person…"

"Then I'd say you're probably not very good at your job," Donna tells her plainly.

Gibbs glares off the remark and tries a different approach. She hands Donna a stack of papers—she's gone ahead and highlighted the areas of interest. Donna takes a moment to look the document over in another bout of silence.

Bolero ends. A clock somewhere in the room ticks loudly around them. Donna had seen this coming, had been preparing herself for it for years, and still she is dizzy with shock. Her heart seems to have risen to her throat. Her pulse whooshes through her ears. "If you have all of this on me then why haven't you charged me yet?" she asks, sounding a little breathless.

"Because I don't want you. I want Martell and I'm willing to throw you a life vest if you're willing to cooperate."

"And if I'm unwilling?"

"The official version of that will be filed with the court."

Donna nods in understanding. "Then let's get this over with."

Gibbs hits record and Donna Paulsen states her name for the record.

II

"There's good news and there's bad news."

"Go on," Harvey says, walking with Mike into his office.

"Baker Engineering is clean. I went through the documents last night and it's all pretty unremarkable."

"And the bad news?"

"The other two companies have invoices to Duke-Sanger's special shop in India.

"Shit."

"Yeah, it's not looking good."

Harvey takes a seat behind his desk. He tries to get his mind to focus on their next move but all he can think about is Wethersfield, Connecticut and how he looked at the map last night and discovered a town a tenth of the size of Manhattan with a single stoplight intersection. It's exactly the type of town where everyone would boast of knowing everyone, and he just can't get around the fact that Donna didn't seem at all surprised to get that subpoena. In fact, he might even say she was expecting it.

"You know, there's something I don't understand," Mike says, pacing the floor in front of Harvey's desk.

Harvey drags himself up, thinking _finally, the kid's caught on._ "What's that?" He tries not to sound anxious but there is a conflict rising inside of him: one half wishing Mike would confirm his suspicion, the other hoping desperately that he doesn't.

"Why is Gibbs wasting her time deposing Donna?" The young attorney searches Harvey's eyes, trying to gauge his reaction. Feeling confident he hasn't overstepped, he continues, "This is a massive case and I get that she hates you, but—I don't know— don't you think it's just a little excessive?"

"Yeah," Harvey admits, not at all relieved by Mike's thoughts. "It is extreme."

Mikes waits for him to offer up some sort of explanation, but Harvey doesn't have one. They leave the subject, put it out like a soiled trash bag, but the foulness of it still lingers.

III

It is midday and she is still gone. His lamb with a wolf, undefended. How could he have been stupid enough to let her go alone? Harvey tries his best not to stare out at the empty cubicle but his eyes keep ending up there anyway and it is in one of these moments that he sees that wolf, Anita Gibbs, walking down the hallway toward his old office. He bolts up, practically charging after her.

"What the hell are you doing here, Anita?"

The Assistant U.S. Attorney spins around, her expression smug as ever. "I'm looking for your secretary."

Losing his anger to confusion, he asks, "Wasn't she at your deposition?"

"She was. And as you probably already know, that redheaded wench of yours pleaded the fifth. So as promised, I am here to serve Ms. Paulsen and her attorney, Ms. Zane, a copy of the charges I filed against her."

" _Charges_?"

"Oh, don't act surprised."

Hearing the commotion, Mike and Rachel come spilling out of their offices, both wide-eyed and unnerved. Gibbs hands her summons over to Rachel, who accepts it hesitantly.

"Gibbs, seriously, I'm at a loss here," Harvey says, his tone sincere. "Donna worked at Duke-Sanger years ago. What can you possibly charge her with?"

The older woman searches Harvey's face as if seeing him for the first time. "You really don't know? The best secretary in Manhattan and it never occurred to you to ask this woman where she came from?" The Assistant U.S. Attorney almost sounds amused, as if she believes Harvey is being deliberately thick. "Donnas aren't born, Harvey, they're made, and all the things that she does that you're so fond of, she did for someone else before you. Aiding and abetting, coercion, conspiracy, _fraud_ –none of this was new to her when she came to you."

 _Clearly she's got the wrong person_ , some naive, childish voice inside Harvey is saying. _This is Donna_. Of course he knows where she came from. Wethersfield, Connecticut, and yeah, it happens to be the same town as Jonathan Martell, but it's a small world…

"This has to be a joke," Rachel is saying, looking up from the document Gibbs handed her with horror striking her features. "I mean, _Conspiracy to Defraud the U.S. Government—_ what kind of charge is that and on what grounds are you making it?"

"I suggest you speak to your client, Ms. Zane, because as much as I would love to ruin all of your days with an explanation, I couldn't bear to steal the opportunity from Donna."

Anita Gibbs walks off and for a long time the three attorneys stare stupidly after her. When Harvey finally regains at least some of his composure he heads straight for the elevators.

"Where are you going?" Mike asks after him.

"To find Jonathan Martell."

"You're not serious?"

"I am-you got a problem with that?" Harvey shoves the down button for the elevator and turns on Mike, his expression a terrifying mix of furious and calm.

"Don't you think we should wait and talk with Donna first?"

"Why? So she can lie to us some more?"

"Lying to us and keeping things from us are not the same thing."

"Well they are to me." The elevator doors open and Harvey steps inside. He hits the button for the main lobby and says to Mike, "Now are you coming with me or not?"

Mike steps into the elevator without pause.

IV

Duke-Sanger's corporate office is located at the edge of the Financial District, a towering platinum building overlooking the East River. From the few times he's visited over the years, Harvey has in his memory a grand lobby, packed full and bustling, not chaotic, but alive. A well-oiled machine. Now the place looks deserted and overly large, all white marble and echoes, abandoned by the rich business class because who can risk being affiliated with the headline **Duke-Sanger Finances the War In the Middle East.**

The lawyers reach the gates of reception. The woman sitting behind the front desk is small and redheaded, wearing a prim white dress that nearly blends into her pale skin.

Harvey tells her, "I'm here to see Jonathan Martell."

"Okay." The girl smiles at him. Her blue eyes sweep him up and down. Deciding he's legitimate, she says, "He's on floor 55."

 _What a terrible secretary,_ Harvey thinks and lets Mike throw the girl a quick thanks. They're halfway to the elevators when they hear at their backs. "I'm assuming you have the code…"

Harvey turns around. The redhead is still smiling, but he catches something mischievous in it. "You have to have a code to get to floor 55," she elaborates.

Harvey walks toward her, fighting to keep his annoyance at bay. "I must not have received that information. I'm Mr. Martell's attorney, Harvey Specter, and this is sort of urgent so I would appreciate it if you would just…" –He can't stop it from coming out as a command— "give me the code."

The girl sighs, seems to mull it over, and then she's grabbing a sticky-note and writing something down. She folds up the piece of paper and passes it to Harvey over the desk.

In the elevator Harvey hands Mike the code and tells him to punch it in. He's beginning to feel ill. He loosens up his tie and takes a deep breath, but that tight chested feeling won't go away.

"Yeah…" Mike drawls. "I think we've been duped."

He hands the slip of paper back to Harvey. There is a sad face drawn on it, little tears falling out of the eyes and all. Harvey crumples the note in his fist and tosses it to the floor, muttering obscenities, trying to catch his breath. He starts back toward the woman but Mike is there, shoving him back, saying "Harvey, sit down. I'll handle this." And the kid is right, he needs to sit down because he's about to throw up.

He finds a bench just outside the elevator and sits there with head between his knees and waits.

No more than ten minutes passes when he hears Mike triumphant voice call out, "Got it."

Harvey looks up, face ashen but breathing a little easier. "Took you long enough. What did you do—sleep with her?"

"I don't have to cheapen myself to get what I want. I was just nice. You should try it sometime."

Harvey stands up and hits call for the elevator. "I don't need to be nice," he tells the kid. "I'm tall and good-looking."

"Said the old, wrinkled man…"

Harvey smiles to himself, feeling a sudden surge of an almost fatherly pride and affection for the young lawyer. It begins to dawn on him that he wouldn't have been able to do this by himself. He needs Mike, and instead of being depressed by this, he thinks of something Dr. Agard once told him: he's not weaker because he needs someone but stronger by understanding his limitations . And it's sappy as hell, because everything that woman says is textbook sap, but it does the job. He feels okay. Besides, two gunslingers is much more threatening than one.

Harvey punches the code in, gets a positive chime of acceptance, and the elevator begins to rise. Mike says absently, "And I asked myself, 'where would people never notice a town full of robots...'"

Harvey finishes the quote, saying, "Connecticut." and they exchange shit-eating grins.

"You got the vibes too then?" Mike asks.

"That that receptionist was like a cheap Donna? Yeah. I got it."

"Maybe that's what this is all about," Mike ventures. "Donna's a robot. It wouldn't be the biggest stretch in the world. I mean, she does do that weird thing where she knows everything. Plus she's got like perfect—" He stops himself abruptly, clears his throat. But Harvey's already filled in the blank for him, picturing Donna's pale chest rising out of that dangerously low cut navy dress she doesn't wear often enough.

Harvey's brow rises, his face an annoyed old brother whose two seconds away from decking his sibling. "Perfect what?" He asks.

"Huh?"

"She has perfect what, Mike?"

"Uh…hair?" he offers, shrugging, and he's out of the elevator as fast as the doors can open.

He knows Donna isn't a robot, but Harvey can't say he isn't little bit relieved to see a brunette secretary at floor 55's reception. She lets the two men know that Martell is in a meeting and offers to direct them to a break room to wait in.

On their way down the hall, Mike asks, "Harvey, are you sure you want to do this?"

Harvey doesn't answer and instead asks the brunette whether the large room they are passing is the conference room. The secretary nods offhandedly and continues down the hall. Mike follows a step and is then jolted back by Harvey's hand tugging at his suit jacket.

"I'm sure," he says and as if to further his point he shoves the conference room door open.

Behind the door, a dozen businessmen are huddled around a large table. There is a projection at the front of the room showing a conference video of another room, also filled with suited bodies. The men, stunned by the intrusion, turn their attention toward the attorneys at the doorway.

With a casualness equal to pulling someone aside on the street and asking for the time, Harvey says, "Which one of you assholes is Jonathan Martell?"

A trim and well-dressed man with dark hair and pale eyes rises. He says, with a casualness reciprocating Harvey's, "That would be me."


	3. The Other

I

There is something off about Jonathan Martell, Harvey decides as he and Mike follow the silent and sure-footed man through the labyrinth of Duke-Sanger. He attempts to place it, but comes up empty handed and realizes maybe it's not a something but more of a nothing. Harvey has always relied on his ability to gauge people: he can tell a nervous man by his half-hearted laugh, an aggressor by his large sweeping gestures, the liar by his exaggerated emphasis. You have to know the man to know his vulnerability and it is this talent, finding that vulnerability, which has made Harvey so successful. A small part of him begins to feel somewhat unprepared for this meeting, maybe even a little brash, but he swallows it down, reminding himself that he is at his best when he's bluffing.

The office of Jonathan Martell is about as eccentric as the man himself. At first glance, there is an elegance about the place: all dark woods and tarnished brassy trims. Georgian, one might coin the space, with a sort of rustic masculinity, but on further inspection it all feels…bizarre. Stuffed woodland creatures lurk about, poking out behind shelves, mounted obtrusively to the walls. Across the room, a sculpture with half a head faces Harvey; it's large, low hanging breasts two-thirds of the exhibit. The gender is unclear. Could be a man with tits, he can't be sure. Above an unlit granite fireplace, is painting of a man draped in a red sheet sitting on a green chair, half his head is blurred black. Harvey begins to see a trend.

Martell says, "Have a seat." His voice is flat and monotone, making Harvey unsure of whether this is an invitation or a command. He doesn't want to be seen to submit, but, of course, Mike sits down and Harvey feels he must oblige or else risk the two of them looking uncoordinated.

From his plush leather chair, Harvey watches Martell take his seat behind the desk. He is the stretched out kind of tall, with long limbs and slight shoulders. A wan, troubled intellect, dressed in a fancy package.

Mike is the first to break the silence, asking Jonathan, "Soo...what's with all of the stuffed animals?"

"Taxidermy," Martell answers, his gray, almost milky, eyes shifting to Mike, sizing him up. "It's a hobby."

 _Taxidermy?_ Who the hell is this guy—Norman Bates? Harvey and Mike exchange looks and he swears for a moment he has telepathy because he can almost hear the kid quoting Hitchcock's _Psycho_ : "We all go a little mad sometimes."

Mike's lips quiver, fighting off a grin. Harvey glares at the kid: _get serious._

"This is one of my first," Martell says, pointing to a stuffed red fox crouching at the desk's edge. "I used to keep it in living room but my daughter painted his nails—you see? They're pink." Martell stares down at the stiff mammal's claws, his gaze as empty and unblinking as the fox's. "Kids'll do that. Ruin everything." Harvey expects him to add something light hearted to this statement: _But you gotta love 'em!_ Or _Keeps life interesting!_ But he doesn't and it just hangs there, eerie and definitive.

"Very beautiful," Harvey says dryly.

Martell nods, focusing his strange, unseeing stare on Harvey. "Thank you, Mr….?"

"Specter."

The man cocks his head, suddenly interested. "The same Specter that used to work for the DA?"

"The very one." Harvey doesn't like that the creep knows of him; it gives the guy an edge.

"I met with Cameron Dennis on occasion during a case," he explains. "He spoke fondly of you."

"Strange, he never mentioned you."

The corners of Martell's lips quirk up just enough for Harvey to grasp the notion of a smile. "I'm not someone who is often spoken fondly of."

"I can't imagine why."

Unamused by Harvey's sarcasm, Martell decides to bring forth the point: "All right, Mr. Specter, I'm intrigued. What has you bursting into a conference room, calling for my head?"

Unable to think of a delicate way to put it, Harvey jumps right in: "My secretary is being charged with conspiracy to defraud the U.S. I wanna know why."

"Wouldn't it be easier to ask your secretary this?"

"She hasn't exactly been forthcoming."

Martell nods and folds his long fingers together on top of the desk. He has stubby nails, chewed down to the quick, a nervous habit that doesn't mesh with his severe composure. "And what leads you to believe I would know the answer to this question?"

 _Wethersfield, Connecticut._ Harvey gets an image of those chewed-nailed fingers running down the curve of Donna's back, gripping her ass. He says,"Before she was charged, she was subpoenaed to give a deposition regarding the Illegal Arms Scandal you're so infamously involved in. Somehow this ended with her pleading the fifth."

"I see. And her attorney—where was he during this deposition? Surely his job is to protect her from this kind of mishap."

Harvey sees that Martell is taking a jab here and stares him down without answering.

Mike answers for him. "Donna told us she didn't know anything."

"And you believed her." It is not a question and Martell does not wait for an answer. He says to Harvey, "Beneath all of this swagger you shroud yourself in, Mr. Specter, I'm willing to bet you're an agreeable man. You have kind eyes. They remind me of the golden retriever I had as a boy. Buddy. He was very loyal. Unfortunately, I can see this loyalty turning a clever man such as yourself blind to deception. And I'm sorry that it has to be me to tell you this, but the reason your secretary is being charged is because she's guilty."

And there it is: the sharp left hook. Harvey counters, "The only thing Donna is guilty of is getting herself involved with an asshole like you,"

"A swift kick and you come right back. What a good dog."

Harvey's composure slips. Rage packing him solid. He's going to knock this freak's teeth in.

"Look, whatever it is Donna did," Mike tells Martell, "she did it through some kind of involvement with you. If she's guilty, so are you."

Martell studies Mike squarely. "I think you misunderstand the situation."

Harvey says, "I'm sure we'd understand the situation a whole lot better if you cut the shit and start answering our goddamn questions."

Martell's jaw twitches, his eyes narrow almost imperceivably. "Everything I've done—this whole inconvenient mess—I did it because Donna _asked_ me to."

They've touched a nerve. Harvey presses, "So, you're telling me Donna _asked_ you to illegally fund a weapon's manufacturer in India? Because if that's the case I'm not buying it."

"Christ, no, that's criminal. Who would do such a thing?" Martell stretches back languidly in his chair, looking almost bored. "But if there was someone twisting arms in this, it wasn't me. I bent over backwards for Donna, gave her everything she asked for, and you know how she repaid me? She walked out. Left me for some arrogant, slick-talking corporate lawyer, I forget the bastards' name."

"Sounds like my kind of guy," Harvey says.

"Your guy is a fool. Too vapid to see he's being played. Charging in here on his high horse, a knight wrapped in tinfoil with no idea his damsel is a sham." Martell shakes his head, sighs and adds, "I do hope she throws the poor pup a bone—the least that ginger bitch can do is have the decency to spread her legs, eh?"

Harvey's time has come. An anger courses through him so pure he doesn't even register rising from his chair and moving across the room. He grabs Jonathan by his crisp white collar and pulls him out of his seat. "Listen, you son-of-a-bitch, I didn't come here fight with you, but I'm getting tired playing your games."

"I'm sorry—have I offended you?" Martell is unperturbed, making no effort to escape Harvey's grasp. "That wasn't my intention. I wasn't aware you would be so emotional—unless..." He searches Harvey's eyes; the vacancy Harvey sees in his cool gray stare reminds him of a reptile. "Do you _love_ her?"

Wearily Harvey corrects him, "I care about her."

"Too proud to admit then? Shacking up with the secretary is beneath you, I understand. But you know what they say about pride, it's just glorified cowardice."

Harvey tightens his grip, and Mike is behind him, saying hastily, "Harvey, don't."

Martell's eyes are burning through him, daring him to sink the first punch and Harvey is keen to rise up to the challenge until it dawns on him: he's not daring him, he's begging for it. The mans arms are limp at his sides, his posture is unaggressive...it's as if he's telling Harvey _go on, I deserve it._ And it all makes sense now. Jonathan Martell's vulnerability is that he hates himself. He's a piece of shit and he knows it, and oddly enough Harvey sympathizes with him. A man that's out to self-destruct—he's been there.

Somehow Harvey finds it in himself to let the man go and with nothing constructive left to say he makes for the door, but Martell is prattling at his back, "One moment, Mr. Specter, before you go—it just occurred to me..."

Harvey turns, determined not let the man get a rise out of him, whatever he says.

"I never thanked you for watching my daughter."

Uncertain of what this means, Harvey raises his brow and looks back at Mike who shakes his head; he has no clue either. Harvey sighs and says, "All right, what are you talking about?"

"Cameron had you keep an eye on Alice while we were in our meetings all those years ago." Martell shrugs. "Perhaps you don't remember, but all the same, you deserve a proper thank you." He's waving Harvey off now, as if their meeting was a small matter, yesterday's news, and begins glancing around his desk as if he lost something.

Mike mouths: _What the fuck?_ And Harvey shakes his head, puzzled, and walks out.

But truth is, he remembers.

II

When Mike gets back from Duke-Sanger, Rachel grabs him by the elbow and pulls him into her office.

"Where's Harvey?" She asks and peers around Mike, craning her neck to get a glimpse out of the glass door. Her dark eyes sweep the hallway, edgy almost, as if she's a child about to commit some wrong behind Daddy's back. "Did you guys meet with Jonathan Martell?"

There is an urgency in her voice that has Mike worried. He says, "We saw Martell—guy's a total psychopath—and Harvey's with Louis going over the Duke-Sanger cases." He grabs his fiancée's waist and pulls her around to face him. "Rachel, is everything all right?"

"I did some more research on Martell while you guys were out," she says, her eyes flicking to the glass again. Katrina Bennet walks past and Rachel waits, watching; when the coast is clear she looks back at Mike and whispers, "Donna wasn't just some secretary."

"We know." Mike smiles, trying to ease her out of her anxiety. _It's no big deal. Harvey's fine. He only tried to kill the guy._ Rachel nods, shifts her gaze to the floor. Inhales. Exhales. Mike kisses the top of her head and then continues on, "I mean—Jonathan didn't explicitly say it, but she worked for him personally. There's no doubt about that."

"No. No, no, no—Mike, you don't understand." She is breathless, panicked. Her eyes dart back to the hallway. _What is she so scared of?_ "You have to promise me that you're not going to tell Harvey what I'm about to tell you—not until we talk to Donna."

"Rachel...you know I can't do that."

"Mike, please."

"I won't do it." He throws up his hands and backs away. It already feels to him like he's conspiring against his friend and he doesn't want to be a part of it. "C'mon, think about what happened last time I kept one of Donna's secrets. It won't end well."

"This is different from last time."

"How? Because it seems to me that Donna's done something behind Harvey's back again and he's going practically unhinged trying to fix it. And I'm sorry Rachel—I know Harvey's anger can be intimating and a pain in the ass to work with—but trust me he's gonna be a whole lot angrier when he finds out that we knew something and kept it from him."

Rachel's eyes stare into Mike's pleadingly and he wants to give in. Wishes he could. But he knows she's wrong in this. So, they stand at odds: his loyalty to Harvey against her loyalty to Donna.

"Damn it, Mike," She says and he knows she's caved by the sigh she lets out, which is so heavy it seems to slump her shoulders. From the desk she picks up a folder and hands it to him. "Just...make sure you look at every page before you decide to take this to Harvey. Okay?"

Mike flips the folder open. Rachel lets out a small gasp and moves beside him as if to shield the documents from the empty hallway. He leafs through, not seeing what the fuss is about: a list of Martell's contractor jobs, Donna's charges, the names and titles on Duke-Sanger's board of directors...he stops on a copy of an official government document, Donna's name staring out at him in bold."Oh my god..."

Rachel says, "It gets worse."

 **A/N: Yeah, I know, what terrible place to cut the chapter. But I'm already part way through the next one, so there's that :) Also, Donna will have more of a role next chapter, I swear! And again, thank you guys a ton for reading and for all your amazing reviews.**


	4. Calm Strength

.

I

 _Harvey is pouring himself a cup of coffee in the break room of the DA's office when Cameron Dennis comes up behind him. "I've got an important job for you," the district attorney says._

 _Harvey finds his approach odd; normally Cameron presents jobs as barking orders. Whatever this is, Harvey knows he isn't going to like it. He turns to his boss, already suspicious. "Did you clog the toilet again? Because you're going to have to call a plumber this time—I'm still having nightmares about that last one."_

 _Cameron grins and slaps his assistant on the back. "Different job. Our expert witness on the Bowen trial had to bring his kid in with him, I need you to—"_

" _No."_

" _You're not going to let me finish?"_

" _Nope, because I know what you're going to say. You want me to watch this guy's kid and I'm telling you I'm not doing it." Harvey tosses his empty sugar packets into the trash as if to punctuate the finality of his statement._

 _Cameron attempts sternness. "What makes you think you have a choice?"_

 _Unruffled by his boss's forged severity, Harvey walks out of the small kitchen. Cameron follows. "Why can't Bertha do it?"_

" _Harvey, that woman scares me and I'm a grown man. I can't do that to a child." Harvey doesn't disagree. Seeing he's got a foot in, Cameron adds, "You do this and I'll let you in on that decapitation case."_

 _Harvey stops and turns to his boss, checking if he's serious. Baited, he takes a moment to think it over. "First chair?"_

 _Cameron laughs. "So you can shit it up? I don't think so, kid."_

" _Fine, second chair, but I get to depose the sister."_

" _Why the sister?"_

 _Harvey shrugs. "She's hot."_

" _All right. Second chair and you depose the sister."_

" _How long do I have until my day is ruined?"_

" _Kid's already here." Cameron motions toward Harvey's desk._

 _Harvey glances over and sure enough, there is a redheaded girl, maybe seven or eight, sitting in his leather back, her grubby—probably sticky—little child hands rummaging through the paperwork at his desk._

" _Goddamnit," Harvey mutters._

II

It's another late night at Pearson Specter Litt and Harvey is sitting alone in his office researching his cases against the DoJ when Mike pokes his head in and asks if he's interested in grabbing a drink. It's half-nine. Harvey is slowing down, his is mind heavy, cluttered: Martell, Gibbs, Donna, Alice. There seems to be a pattern, but it's too much to sift through. He agrees—a few strong drinks, maybe that's what he needs to make these pieces fit.

The kid takes him to a whiskey dive bar. It is the type of crowed that stinks; perspiration and cigarette smoke hang thick in the air and it reminds Harvey of when he first came to New York, before he could afford 18-story cocktail lounges. They are dressed in 3-piece Tom Ford in among open-toed man sandals and skinny jeans. He doesn't understand Mike's choice in atmosphere, but whatever. He goes with it. It's an old sort of new.

They only have the Macallan 12, so he orders a double and Mike asks for a bourbon and platter of French fries. "Would you eat chicken wings?" The kid wants to know and Harvey nods, he'll eat anything at this point. Having missed lunch, he's half-starved and because he's unreasonable he blames Donna. She deals with his lunch and because she never showed up after her deposition he didn't eat. He couldn't even order his own food because he doesn't know what he likes anymore—she keeps track of that.

"What a week, huh?" Mike says, loosening his tie. "Subpoenaed by the DoJ, the whole Donna ordeal, that quack, Jonathan Martell—I've been back ten days and we're already getting buried."

Harvey shrugs. "This is the big leagues. It's never smooth sailing."

Mike nods. The waitress brings their drinks. The kid takes a sip of his bourbon and says, casual but probing, "You holdin' up all right?"

"You worried about me?"

"You lost your breath at Duke-Sanger. You choked out Jonathan Martell and Donna never came back to the office." Mike takes another swig, his blue eyes never leaving Harvey. He swallows, spins the liquid in his glass, and adds, "Yeah, I guess I'm worried."

Harvey nods, throws back his whiskey and sets it at the edge of the table, ready for another. "I'm fine, Mike." And then, acting reminded, he adds, "Has Rachel heard from her?"

"Just a text letting Rach know she's okay, but nothing since." Mike downs his glass and sets it beside Harvey's. "Another round?"

"Do you have to ask?"

Mike takes their glasses to the bar. When he comes back Harvey's helping himself to the kid's French fries. Harvey says, with a casualness that takes effort, "I knew Martell's daughter."

"The one that died?"

Harvey winces. He knew she was dying, but he never sought the confirmation. He sees now there was a part of him wanted to believe she got better and was out there somewhere, living out the rest of her life. How old would she be now? Twenty? Twenty-one? Does it matter? He lets the denial slip away. What comes next? Anger?

"She was seven." Harvey says, staring at the amber liquid in his glass. "Martell is a wack job, no doubt about it, but I can't blame the guy. If I had to watch my daughter die like that—helpless, no way to win—I'd probably be in a worse state than him."

"So, what? You think what he's done is justified?" Mike stares Harvey down. "Yeah, his kid died. It's tragic, but both my parents died and I didn't run off and fund a war."

Harvey smiles. "When did you become such a hardass?"

"When did you become such a crybaby?"

"Watch it, Kid." Harvey sips his drink, runs a hand over his tired face and says, "I'm just trying to make sense of this. Maybe Donna did whatever she did because she felt sorry for Martell. She's a sucker for pathetic—she practically coddles Louis and then there's that IT guy she's suddenly chummy with."

"Don't forget yourself."

"Are you trying to get your ass kicked?"

Mike grins, shoves a French fry in his mouth and leans back, thoughtful but the idling sort. There's something on his mind, but he hasn't got the balls to say it.

"Something you're not telling me?" Harvey asks.

Mike sighs, sits back up and points at Harvey's drink. "You're going to want to finish that."

III

 _The kid has Harvey's desk drawers pulled open and she's indelicately shifting through his possessions when he comes up beside her. "Excuse me, Miss." He says. "What do you think you're doing?"_

 _She is elbow deep in the bottom drawer and has to peer sideways through her long curtain of hair to meet Harvey's gaze. "Looking for a pink pen."_

" _There are no pink pens in there."_

" _How would you know?"_

" _Because I'm Harvey Specter." He points to his name plate. "And this is my desk you're ransacking."_

 _She pulls her arm out, unashamed and stares him down. Her eyes are big blue orbs, striking against her pale, freckled face. "You're not Harvey Specter," she says and there is such certainty in her little voice Harvey's a bit scared to correct her, fearing she might have a tantrum._

" _What makes you think I'm not?" He asks._

 _"Because I'm Harvey Specter." She sits herself back in his chair—now her throne, apparently—and folds her tiny arms across her chest._

 _He leans against the desk next to her, his hip pressing the drawers closed. "I think you're confused."_

 _"Nuh-uh. I'm a lawyer. I put away bad guys." She swings her feet. Silver sequenced Converse press their scuffed tips into his black slacks. "And you're my assistant! Go get a chair."_

 _Harvey brushes off his trousers and moves over an inch. Her feet swing and touch air. He says, "All right, Shrimp, listen. I'm not here to play tea-party-attorneys with you or whatever the hell this is. I've got actual work to do because I'm an actual lawyer and I need you to just behave. You understand?"_

 _"No."_

 _"_ No _?"_

 _Her blue eyes lift and stare into his browns with a firmness that, as far as Harvey is concerned, no child this small should have. "No." She repeats._

 _"You think this is negotiable?_

 _"Do_ you _think this is negotiable? I said no." She shrugs. "What's there to negotiate?"_

 _Someone lets out a snort of a laugh and Harvey looks over to see Bertha chuckling heartily at her cubicle. "Lord, I neva thought I'd see the day. The great Harvey Specter gettin' told by a little girl—hallelujah!"_

 _Harvey glares at his colleague. "Stay out of this Bertha. This is between me and Peewee."_

" _My_ name _is Alice," the girl corrects._

" _Changing names already?" Harvey folds his arms and waits patiently for her rebuttal._

 _Alice bites down on a chapped lip with front teeth that are still growing in, her little mind whirling. Kid's got spunk—he'll give her that. He might even be impressed by her if he wasn't so annoyed._

" _Well, you go ahead and take a moment to sort out your little identity crisis..." Harvey turns to the mess the child has left his desk in. The subpoena he'd spent the morning filling out is at the top of the clutter, but it isn't how he left it; it has been defaced with a terrible child's scrawls. He shuts his eyes, clenches his jaw, tells himself:_ Don't be a dick, she's just a kid.

 _Harvey picks up the subpoena. "Did you do this?"_

 _Alice studies his face. Seeing that he's pissed, she decides to lie. "No."_

 _"Really? Because your name is written across it in the worst handwriting I've ever seen."_

 _"I have beautiful handwriting!" The child snaps, appalled, and as if it holds weight, she adds, "My mom says so."_

 _"Well your mom's a liar because this is chicken scratch."_

 _"It is not!"_

 _"And you know what else? This is malicious destruction of government property, which is a felony."_

 _Her outrage slips. She cocks her head, at a loss. "What's a fell-knee?"_

 _"I thought you were a lawyer?" Harvey raises his eyebrows. The kid stays quiet. He explains, "A_ felony _is something you can go to prison for."_

 _Startled, Alice's mouth falls open into a little O. "You can't go to prison for coloring on a piece of paper…"_

 _"Well I don't know what law school you went to—probably Yale since you can't even pronounce felony—but in my less than humble opinion you most definitely can go to prison for this. But I'm just a Harvard educated lawyer, what do I know? We can always phone up the police. See what they say."_

 _Alice glances around nervously as if checking for the exits. Harvey's ready for her to bolt, but she surprises him by holding her ground. Turning to him, she says defiantly, "You're just trying to scare me."_

 _Harvey takes this as a challenge._ _He picks up the phone. Begins to dial out._

" _Wait!" She climbs up on her seat, leans across the desk and reaches for the hook. Harvey gently bats her away. "But I didn't know it was a fell-knee!"_

" _Doesn't matter, squirt. Any judge will tell you ignorance of the law is no defense to criminal charges."_

" _No, please! Please, mister, I'll be good. I swear." She scrambles back, hops into the chair and sits herself down all prim and proper, a perfect little doll._

 _Slightly touched by her childish impediment, Harvey fights to stay stoic. "I want better than good. I want a deaf, blind, mute. Got it? Not a peep."_

 _She pretends to zip her lips shut and closes her eyes._

 _Harvey looks across at Bertha. "Handled that, didn't I? Piece of cake."_

 _Bertha shakes her head. "What a hotshot. Damn near making a baby cry. You should be ashamed of yourself."_

" _Hm. Weird. I'm not."_

 _When he glances back down, Alice's blue eyes are wide open and staring up at him. Too innocent. This won't last. And as if to prove his point the kid scrunches her nose up and sticks her tongue out with such a force her eyes go cross. Harvey thinks about telling her they'll get stuck that way, all wonky and criss-cross, just like his dad used to tell him, but he's not that mature. He sticks his tongue out, right back at her._

 _Alice giggles, delighted._

IV

Mike pulls a file from his briefcase and sets it on the table between them. He keeps his hand rested over it, his eyes cast downward as if he's still debating whether or not he's doing the right thing.

"How bad is it?" Harvey asks.

"Depends on what your definition of what bad is." Seeing that Harvey is in no hurry to snatch up the documents, Mike relaxes back and lets the folder lay there. Strange, it's finally something solid for Harvey to lift the lid off of and he finds himself hesitant to do it.

"Is she guilty?"

"I don't know."

"That's good." He feels himself relax. "That means her involvement in this is vague."

"Well, no. We haven't done much research into Donna's involvement."

"Then what the hell is this about?"

Mike swallows. He glances back down at the file. Maybe he'll take it back, throw him some sort of excuse, _oops, grabbed the wrong one,_ and maybe Harvey will pretend to buy it. A couple more days of obliviousness, what would it hurt? Looking back up, the kid says, "This is who Donna was before she met you."

This is it then. The jumbled mess that's been knocking around in his head will finally take shape. And what will it look like? How does it all fit? Donna and Jonathan in Wethersfield. Dead little Alice Martell. That woman in the hospital with that calm strength in her eyes that still haunts him, were those _her_ eyes? He doesn't know. He has a feeling, some notion, something under the surface that he can't quite reach. And there it is, lying on the table, everything he's terrified to be right about. He just has to lift the lid…

In his hypnotized state, the attorney in Harvey can only think of one question: "Will any of this help us against Anita Gibbs?"

"It will help with our defense to know these things, but there is nothing in here we can use."

"Then let Donna keep her secrets," he says decisively. "If any of what's in there becomes relevant you can take care of it."

"Harvey—"

"Mike, people keep secrets for a reason and I'm not in the business of uncovering dirty laundry unless it benefits our case."

Mike searches Harvey's eyes. He doesn't understand, but he nods anyway. "Okay," he says, "whatever you say."

V

 _Cameron Dennis has taken meetings with his "expert witness" every Wednesday for two months now and Harvey's beginning to get the notion that something underhanded is going on. His first prick of distrust came the third time the kid was pawned off on him; Cameron mentioned his meeting was for the Reynolds's case but Harvey remembers it being for Bowen. Sure, it's not unlikely to have the same expert on two separate cases, but when Harvey pressed what the guy was an expert in, Cameron told him finance, and Harvey can't quite see what a financial expert has to do with rape or arson; or why, for that matter, does Cameron take these meetings at an undisclosed location outside of the DA's office._

 _His conclusion is that Cameron is having an affair. He doesn't suspect his mentor would ever do anything illegal or corrupt and it's the only thing left that makes any sense. It upsets him more than it reasonably should that he's involved in it—that he's aiding these men in their disloyalty—and worse, that he has this little girl shoved right in front of him that seems to embody what he so desperately tries to forget, being the victim of a disloyal parent himself. He wonders if Alice knows about her father's deceit and if she's been asked to keep it a secret as he once was. He hopes she doesn't; he'd like to think she's oblivious, as children her age normally are, but she's far too clever for him to be certain._

 _Harvey ponders the whole sordid mess as he watches the kid hunt through the break room cabinets. She stands on the countertop and stretches out onto her tip-toes to reach for the highest shelf. It's a mile away. She'll never make it. Poor little creature. "Harvey," she calls. "There's chocolate up there. You see?"_

" _I see it and I'm not getting it for you. It's probably ancient and you'll sick it up like you did that burrito I got you last week."_

" _You said I had to eat it in 10 seconds!"_

 _He smiles at her back. "I didn't think you actually would."_

 _She turns her head, already in full pout. Her big blue eyes blink innocently at him. "Please, Harvey? We can check the expiration."_

 _He kicks himself off the counter he's leaning against and goes to her. He doesn't even register that he's conceded until he has the bag of Hershey's Kisses in his hands._

 _He's wrapped around her tiny finger._ When the hell did this happen?

 _Harvey unwraps a candy, revealing beneath the foil a normal looking chocolate Kiss. "Hm. I don't know, Nugget. This could be lethal."_

" _That's okay. I'm already dying."_

" _That's a bit dramatic."_

 _She shrugs, snatches the candy from him and shoves it in her mouth. He watches her take two indelicate chews and then her pretty little features distort themselves and he's holding his hand out for her to spit the half-eaten chocolate glob into._

" _You're an animal," he tells her._

 _He's at the sink, washing his hands off when the kid says at his back, "My mom says you call me names because you're fond of me."_

" _You told your mom about me?" The mom. The betrayed one. He thinks of his dad and the hurt he went through and feels sorry for her. There is too much of this shit in life and it eats at him. You can't trust anyone, not even the parents who raised you._

" _Just that you're mean and I hate you." He hears her feet clatter to the floor._

" _Oh, good. I would hate for her to think any different." He turns around and she's beside him with a towel for his hands. "And your mom is wrong. I'm the opposite of fond. You're the reason I booked up an appointment to get a vasectomy, so thanks for that."_

" _You're welcome," She says, genuinely pleased to get his thanks._

 _They start back toward Harvey's desk, but the thought of going back to the pit makes him feel suffocated. He needs some air. "Hey, Pipsqueak, what do you say we blow this joint?"_

 _Alice grins, her eyes wild with excitement. His little ride-or-die._

 _They leave out Baxter St., toward Columbus Park, the July humidity wraps up around them, hot and sticky, like a town wide sauna. Harvey buys them both an ice cream and they sit out by the duck pond racing to eat them before they melt._

" _So what's with your dad bringing you to his meetings?" Harvey probes. He is hunched over, legs spread, trying to keep his ice cream from dripping onto his slacks. Next to him, the kid has become a sticky mess; vanilla ice cream frames her lips, drips down both hands, it is splattered at the front of her dress, she's even managed to get it in her hair._ _Harvey rolls his eyes and throws her some napkins._

" _Wednesday's are our Daddy-Daughter Day." She shrugs, dabbing herself up. It just gets worse. "My mom thinks we don't spend enough time together, so she made us have a day. He just makes other people watch me. He doesn't like me much."_

" _I'm sure he_ _loves you a_ _lot_." How could he not? _"He's just busy. It happens—things will calm down someday."_

 _She doesn't buy it. She nods without looking at him. Swings her feet. "I watched the Yankees game, like you said."_

" _Oh yeah? What'd you think?"_

" _I like it when they do the slides."_

 _Harvey smiles. "Me too. You know, I used to play baseball. My batting average was three-eighty-five."_

" _Is that good?"_

"Is that good?" _He scuffs. Wounded. "Get your notebook out. Write down: look up batting averages, and the next time I see you you better worship the ground I walk on."_

 _She takes out her little pink notebook and begins to scribble. Harvey asks, "What haven't you crossed off yet?"_

" _Listen to Miles Davis. Look up the proh—er, how do I say that?"_

" _Not even if I squint is that legible."_

" _Prohibnets?"_

" _Prohibition. Next."_

" _Read the Bill of Rights. Watch The Goonies. See Harvey with a mustache like Cameron Dennis—"_

" _Cross that off."_

" _No. It's my goal list. Not yours." She scoots away from him. "Go to Harvard. Work for Harvey Specter. Have mom—oh…that's a secret."_

 _Harvey lifts his eyebrow, swallows down the rest of his ice cream and says, "Goals shouldn't be secrets."_

 _She ignores him, changes the subject: "My mom's been helping me cross them off. She's the one who put the Yankee's game on for me."_

" _I bet she was thrilled."_

" _She was. She said Derek Jeter has a nice bum."_

 _Harvey laughs. "Baseball should not be sexualized. You tell her that."_

" _Or you could tell her." Alice smiles shyly, eyes cast out at the pond. She swings her feet out and clicks them together, she adds, "Maybe we could all three watch The Goonies together."_

" _You're not trying to hook me up with your mom are you? Because she's married. To your dad." He sounds stern, even to his own ears._

 _She whirls around to face him, upset by his tone. "We'll they're getting a divorce,_ okay _?"_

 _So the husband isn't being disloyal. The two are separated. Harvey feels lighter. "I'm sorry, Kid. That's tough. And you're mom sounds like a nice lady, but I…" He's given excuses for his resistance to relationships an innumerable amount of times, always picking whatever suits the situation, but he decides not to lie to the kid. "I don't want to be in a relationship because I'm afraid I'll get hurt."_

" _How will you get hurt?_ _"_

 _How does he put this into words? His traumatic distrust. Of seeing the woman he grew up adoring rip his father's heart out and shred it. A child can't understand that._

" _I'm not sure I would get hurt, but I don't want to risk it. Love makes you powerless and weak and I'm not a fan of either of those traits."_

 _And then the kid says something that sounds like childish nonsense, but that Harvey finds rather profound: "You're going to hurt anyway. You'll have all this love in you and nowhere to put it."_

VI

Mike leaves at midnight and Harvey, notably intoxicated at this point, remembers the redhead from Duke-Sanger slipped him her number as he was leaving that afternoon. He calls her and they agree to meet at some place called The Make-Out Room in East Village. It's a grim little club that no respectable Manhattan attorney would ever step foot inside, but he feels committed having come out this side of town. He quickly finds the girl, buys her a drink, shouts a few words in her ear over the terrible dance house music and leads her out the door.

They kiss on the street. Her mouth is warm and wet and taste of methanol cigarettes. Her kisses come at him like an attack, forceful and too much tongue. He doesn't enjoy it as much as he wants to. There are too many people on the streets and too much on his mind. She tastes like his freshman year at NYU, booze and smoke; it's not his proudest time.

It's too late to phone his driver but they're both drunk enough that the luxury of a town car seems a waste, so he hails a cab and they fall into the backseat, heads swimming.

It's too cramped. Harvey's knees fold against the passenger seat in front of him and he has to shift himself at an odd angle to get comfortable. It's been a long time since he's been inside a cab, he must have out grown them.

The girl scoots close. She is young; probably half his age and at this distance her red hair seems more of a dull blonde. Built like Scottie—small breasted and slight curves—nestled up next to him she feels almost familiar and he's not sure he likes this.

The cab heads north, toward his condo in Upper East Side. With the girl's lips at his neck and her hand at his crotch, Harvey shuts his eyes and tries not to fall asleep. He should have had a coffee, keep himself awake. Be up all night fucking this poor kid. He feels faded somehow, a shadow of his younger self. These late nights used to thrill him, now it just feels like upholding tradition. How middle-aged. He can't get hard. Is that him or her? She seems to have all the right moves, although her rhythm could be better. But she's drunk. It happens. She must notice his unresponsiveness because her kisses become feverish, reminding him of a fish sucking air. He fights the urge to laugh. Poor kid, she really is doing her best.

He starts to push her off, but she won't give up. She's determined. He leaves her to it and stares out the window. They glide through a yellow light and he's reminded of Louis and the loud tie he wore yesterday. Or was that the day before? He wonders how he's getting on without Tara. Can't imagine well. It's better to have tried and lost than to have not played at all. He'll have to tell him this. Jonathan Martell pops into his head, with his strange unseeing stare. What was it he said that pissed him off? _Least the ginger bitch could do is spread her legs_. He pictures her on his desk, her dress hiked up just enough for him to see the triangle of her underwear. Those taunt, perfect legs. He imagines pressing his face between them, kissing up her soft skin. That's it. _There._ He lifts his hips against her hand, rolls his head toward her but the eyes that meet his are blue instead of the brown he'd been hoping for.

"Who's Donna?" she asks.

"Did I—"

"Yes."

He shrugs. "You never told me your name."

"I did. It's Erica."

They go the rest of the way without touching. He's upset her, first with his limpness and then by calling her another woman's name, and just when he thinks he couldn't be any more of an asshole, they get to his place and that other woman is sitting in his living room.

Donna.

His body trembles, his head spins, his heart seems to seize, swell and ache all at once. A rush of emotions bubble up to the surface: betrayal, anger, sadness, love, fear, need— respectively. He doesn't know which to latch onto and in his drunken state it's a lottery.

She rises from his couch. That look in her eyes. _Calm strength._

 _._

 **A/N: This chapter was meant to be much longer but I'm splitting it into two so that it's not an overwhelming read. I know Flashbacks can be a hit or a miss, so hopefully they don't draw away from the story too much. And thank you all for reading and reviewing!**


	5. Tell Me You're Not

I

Donna doesn't know what she had been expecting to find when she came over to Harvey's place, but had she given it proper thought seeing him parade through the door, drunk with a girl young enough to be his daughter would have been exactly it. This is Harvey Specter after all; some aspects of this man will never change.

She stands up from the couch. Harvey's dark eyes stare at her with an indifference that seems almost cruel. The girl at his side breaks the heated silence. "Let me guess—this is Donna."

Donna's eyes slide over to the girl, not quite sure what her dry tone implies. Harvey says, "Emily, I think you should leave," and the poor girl's mouth nearly drops to the floor. Welcome to Donna's world. She deals with this asshole sixteen hours a day.

"It's _Erica_ and I can't believe you just brought me home to your _wife_. What's wrong with you?"

 _Wife. That's a good one._ Donna walks to Harvey's bar cart, in sudden need of a drink. "His secretary, actually," she says, pouring. "No harm, no foul."

"Secretary _…"_ The girl laughs, high-pitched, hysterical. "Oh god. I see. You have some kind of redheaded secretary fetish. You are fucked in the head, you know that?"

Harvey doesn't move. Doesn't even seem to hear the girl. He just stands there, uninterested as if he's waiting for the whole thing to blow over so that he can go to bed.

Donna offers the girl a sympathetic shrug. Sips her drink. She won't defend him.

Emily/ Erica walks out, her Jeffery Campbell's clicking in that pissed clatter only a severely infuriated woman can pull off (Donna imagines this is Harvey's bedtime lullaby). The girl manages herself well enough, head held high. Bless her. The door opens. Slams. Boss and Secretary stand in silence: her in the living room, him in the kitchen. She finishes her drink in an unladylike gulp and fights the urge to pour another.

"Donna," Harvey greets. He is gripping the edge of the kitchen counter, white knuckled from holding on so tightly, really leaning into it like he's trying to push the granite island at her. He asks, "How did your deposition go?" but she can tell by the way he is both firm and callous in his questioning that he already knows the answer to this. This is just a place for him to start.

"Not ideal," she says. "But I'm sure you've heard. I'll spare the details. How were things at the office?"

"Pretty interesting. Gibbs came by looking for you." He walks out of the kitchen, coming toward her, his gait a little unsteady. He stops at the bar and begins to pour a drink he doesn't need. "Conspiracy to defraud the U.S…" With his back to her, he shakes his head and then downs his whiskey. "That's a goddamn first."

He pours another. To avoid sending him over the edge, Donna's tone is careful when she says, "Harvey, I don't think you should be drinking anymore."

He turns to her and glares. "Do you really think you're in any position to tell me what to do?"

He tosses the drink back. Goes for another. Donna is at his side, brown eyes firm and unyielding in the face of his fury. "Stop it," she says with a strictness Harvey is conditioned to obey. He lets her take his drink, watching as she sets it aside, stunned like she's done a magic trick to steal it from him. "If you have something to say to me, Harvey, just say it, because I'm not doing this between-the-lines bullshit with you."

"Fine. You wanna have it out, Donna? Let's have it out." He steps toward her, the ruthless and forceful Harvey Specter rising up to a challenge; she will not back down and that just pushes him closer. His height becomes imposing, his dark eyes all pupil. He says, "Why don't you start by telling me about your good friend Jonathan Martell?"

Donna is startled. _How could he already know about Jonathan?_ She thought she'd have more time.

"You look surprised. That's not a name you ever thought you'd hear me say, is it? Well, I went to see him today."

Her gut lurches, sinks. She backs away and he presses forward. "You saw Jonathan?"

"Yeah, charming guy. He had some really nice things to say about you. Sounds like you two were thick as thieves—pun intended. So what was it? Was he your boss? Were you two having an affair? Is this where your _rule_ came from?" Harvey lifts his eyebrows, looking no longer angry, but vaguely curious.

Donna doesn't know how to answer him. She stands there with her mouth open, grasping for words. He obviously doesn't know the whole story and this worries her.

"Go on, tell me." He steps closer to her, her back bumps bar stools, the countertop, pinned. She can smell the woody spice of the whiskey on his breath. There is some kind of glitter on his neck, from where that girl was kissing him no doubt. "You won't say because you think I'll be mad?" His voice is low, husky. His eyes lazily take her in. "Don't flatter yourself, Donna. I don't care who you go to bed with."

His words are a weapon, the blows perfectly aimed. She gasps at the ache. Recovers. Tells him, "Your best defense is to be offensive, isn't it?"

He steps away. Damage done. It's just some game to him and he has to win because he just cannotbare to be vulnerable. "What's yours, then? Lying?"

"When have I ever lied to you, Harvey?"

"How about _yesterday_ when I wanted to go to your deposition and you told me—what was it you said?— _I don't know anything about Duke-Sanger. I hardly left my cubicle._ "

"Three of your clients were _just_ subpoenaed by the department of justice. I didn't want to stress you with something I thought I could handle."

His anger shifts into more of a disappointed grimace. "That's bullshit and you know it. You just didn't want me to find out about whatever shady shit you got yourself involved in."

"You know what—no more. I'm done. You're drunk and this won't end well if we keep going at each other like this." She starts her reverse, grabs her purse from the coffee table; she doesn't know what she was thinking coming here.

"You know what, Donna; if it wasn't for the alcohol you'd be in a much shitter position."

She knows she should keep walking; it's the mature, rational thing to do. But she turns back around because no matter how mad he makes her or how upset she gets, she always comes back to him. "Why? Because I choose not to divulge every element of my personal life to you? You're my _boss_ , Harvey, not my boyfriend. I'm allowed to have secrets."

"Donna, you've been by my side for thirteen goddamn years and I feel like I have no idea who you are right now."

Donna drops her bag to the floor and sweeps her arms out to her sides, palms up. "Then _ask_ me. Ask me who I am."

He steps back, surprised at her offer. He wasn't expecting her to give it up that easy and she realizes he's not ready to hear it. She almost laughs.

Harvey changes course. "I just want to know what you did."

"Everything Gibbs says I did," she tells him, holding his stare. "Withholding information, altering and destruction of documents, conspiracy to defraud the U.S. I did it all."

"Why _?"_

"I needed the money."

"For what?"

" _Does it matter_?" This comes out too firm, a defense. Harvey knows this and she expects him to press. _There's the cut Harvey, do what you do._ But he surprises her—

"No," he says. "It doesn't matter." He leaves the subject and starts to pace. He walks to the center of the living room, from the center to the rear, stopping in front of the picture windows. Manhattan is lit up in front of him; his silhouette is the epitome of power: tall, well-dressed, a handsome profile. He seems serene and confident standing there, but Donna knows better. She can see the way his eyes are cast downward, the slight slump in his posture, even the exertion in his breathing: his inhales too sharp, his exhales too drawn out. He is scared, she realizes. He doesn't know if he'll be able to get her out of this.

With his gaze fixed out the window, Harvey says, "Mike and Rachel know."

"What do Mike and Rachel know?"

He turns, his stare focused not quite on Donna but at some point beside her. "I don't know. Whatever it is you're hiding. Mike wanted to tell me, but I wouldn't…" He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. She's not sure if he'll finish, so she finishes for him—

"You want to hear it from me."

"Yeah," he says softly, relieved as if he wasn't aware this is what he needed until he heard her say it. He lifts his eyes, searching hers for something, maybe hoping to pull the answers from her without her ever having to speak the truth aloud. He gives up, says, "So just tell me."

 _How did we get here_? She wonders. It's been less than 48 hours since she's been subpoenaed and already everything has blown apart. She thinks of the last time she saw him, how they joked about his god awful taste in mahogany, and truthfully she doesn't see a way back to that. But maybe that's for the best. This could be what she needs—to be pushed out so she can move on. So, she tells him—

"Jonathan Martell was my husband."

II

 _He finds out Alice has cancer from Bertha, who heard it from the father on the third Wednesday he showed up without his daughter in tow. She's passing around a Get Well card; there are big wet tears welt up in her eyes._

" _You write something real nice for her, you understand?" Bertha tells Harvey, sniffing. "She liked you best for whatever the hell reason and if I see just a signature from you, I'll beat up to a pulp."_

 _Harvey just stares at the woman, stunned. It doesn't make any sense; people who have cancer are sick. Alice isn't sick. Just three weeks ago she was skipping around the office, laughing and laughing. A royal pain in his ass, just as usual. "Are they sure it's cancer?"_

" _She's had it for a while, her Daddy said. Some kind of Neuro-thing. She was in remission and went in because her back was hurtin' her. They found tumors all over the place."_

" _Jesus_ _."_

" _She's got some sort of infection now and they can't do treatment." Bertha presses her fist against her lips and shifts her teary eyes upward, toward the ceiling. "Seven years old. Ain't that just cruel?"_

 _Harvey stands up. "Which hospital?"_

 _Bertha looks surprised, tells him, "Mount Sinai."_

" _I'll take the card, Bertha" he says, and Bertha for what seems like the first (and probably last) time graces Harvey with a look of deep respect._

 _Mount Sinai is on the opposite side of Manhattan and traffic is at a crawl. He feels like it takes him too long and by the time he reaches the hospital he's walking through the halls with an urgency of a man who feels he's running out of time._

 _He doesn't know the kid's last name, but a nurse in the children's oncology wing hears him speaking at reception and escorts him to the little girl:_ Alice, yes, everyone knows her. Amazing kid. So positive. And her mother, she's such a lovely woman and one of the strongest gals I know. Are you friends with Donna? No? The father, then? Shame I've never met him. _He should have brought flowers—he didn't even think about it. All he's got is this silly card, signed by people she hardly knows. He feels inadequate. Nervous. Scared. When they get to the room the nurse leaves him at the threshold and he sees inside a big bed and lots of machines and a little girl cruelly tether to all of it._

 _He starts to talk himself out of it. He can't go in. He'll drop the card off at reception. That's enough. He doesn't have to see the kid. She's not his problem._

 _Then her lids lift and blue eyes, bright and feverish looking, seek his. Her cracked lips smile so huge it lights up her whole damn face. "Harvey," she says, a whisper or maybe nothing but the motion._

 _His move to her bedside is thoughtless instinct because—who was he kidding?—he belongs there._

III

 _Jonathan Martell was my husband._

There is a long silence following Donna's confession. Harvey stands at the window looking dazed, staring off at nothing, folding in on himself. He's lost in a thought that for once Donna can't read and it makes her feel ill. She tries to speak but can't find her words because she has no idea of what to say. Does she apologize? And if she does, what is she apologizing for exactly—keeping the marriage from him or being married in the first place?

Harvey is back from whatever far off place he went to, his gaze shifting, flicked on like a light, boring down on her. He takes her in, from the top of her head down to her beige Louboutin pumps, head slightly cocked as if he's seeing something out of place but he's not entirely sure what it is. Something about her has shifted; she's still Donna, but not how he left her. She is like a Russian doll he's accidentally bumped off a dresser and the first layer has given way to something else underneath, a depth below the surface that he never explored because it simply never occurred to him. How queer. Who would have thought Donna was anything other than Donna?

And there's more still, other layers. He's just barely touching beneath the surface.

Harvey breaks the silence, his voice calm and commanding. "How long?"

"Eight years."

He looks stricken, maybe even wounded. "That's a long time."

"Is it?"

He glares at her remark. _You think this is a joke?_

But it's not a joke. It just never felt that long to her and if she's honest, it wasn't long enough—not the marriage, but the time.

He walks back to the bar. _Another drink, perfect,_ she thinks. _Just what we need._ But no, he doesn't go for the Scotch, he goes for the cart, taking it by the side bar and smashing it into the floor. Glass shatters. Liquids spill out, expands, seeps into the tiles; a trail of amber liquid rolls toward Donna and she stares, stunned, as it pools around her feet.

She waits, to see if there is anything else he'd like to break, but he keeps to the middle of his mess, breath ragged and oddly calm, like a cat who's pawed a wine glass off the table; he peers down, apathetic to the destruction. The noise of the glass shattering seems to echo around the condo. Too loud. Donna concentrates on steadying her breathing and keeping her hands from trembling. When she finally has her composure, she grabs her purse, soaked in his Macallan 18—spring exclusive Hermés, she could kill him—and makes for the front door. She knows better than to try to reason with him when he's like this. He needs to be alone. He needs to cool down.

At her retreating back something else smashes. A clatter of debris hits the tile; a pebble rolls and bounces against her heel. She looks over and sees dirt, pieces of pottery, a small cactus uprooted but intact…

Hate, pure hatred for this man fills her and seems to set her free; she goes to him, furious, and he walks to meet her, glass cracking beneath his oxfords. He wants her hate.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" She shouts at him.

"What the hell is wrong with _me_?" He shouts back. "You're the one with some secret fucking life that you've just dropped on me, and now you're just going to walk out?" His voice flatters, nearly breaks. He's trying so hard to hold on to his anger but she can see the hurt surfacing.

Just as quickly as it came, her hatred is gone, replaced with hopelessness and longing. She will never be free. "What else am I meant to do, Harvey? You're deliberately trying to hurt me and I'm not going to stay here and be your punching bag."

"I'm not _deliberately_ trying to hurt you, Donna."

"You just threw a _cactus_ at me."

"I didn't throw it at you. I threw it at the wall."

"Okay." She takes in a shaky breath. "Why the cactus?" She lifts an eyebrow, probing, and steps toward him, putting him on the defense for once. "Why not one of your airplane models or that hideous Chinese statue that doesn't match anything else in here."

"It's just what I grabbed."

"No, Harvey, you wanted to hurt me because I'm the one that got you that stupid cactus. Now quit being irrational."

" _Irrational_?"

"I was married, it's not like I killed someone. Do you think Mike or Rachel will react like this?"

"We're different," he mutters.

" _Are we_?" She latches on. "In what way?"

He stares at her, incredulous. "You know what way."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"Goddamnit, Donna." His jaw clenches. "Nothing. Just go home." He turns his back to her, heading for his bedroom. _Huh? For a man who loves a challenge, he never seems to want to rise up to this one._

She calls after him: "You're just going walking away?"

"Yes."

"No, Harvey. You need to face what the real issue is here."

He turns to her, annoyed. "Which is what?"

"You're in love with me."

They're both struck by boldness of her words. Both suddenly breathless. The room feels too small; it's stifling. Harvey regains himself, becomes infuriated at her.

" _Really_ Donna? Forget being mad about you being sued by the DoJ for being Bonnie and Clyde with an ex-husband I never even _knew_ about—no, the real problem here is that I'm in love with you. Is that what you're saying to me?"

"No, Harvey. What I'm saying is that reason you're _reacting_ the way that you are—breaking shit, throwing plants at my head—is because you're in love with me."

"You're out of your goddamn mind."

"Okay." She tries different approach. "Would you react like this if it was Louis?"

He glares at this question. He won't answer her but that's okay, she knows what he's thinking: _Of course I wouldn't react like this if it was Louis._

"I bet you'd even go so far as to make jokes about a crazy criminal marriage from fifteen years ago if it wasn't mine. And it's not fair. You're allowed to be mad, Harvey, you have that right, but you're not allowed to treat me like I've betrayed you. That's just confusing, for both of us."

"You're unbelievable, you know that? You're just twisting this into something that it isn't."

"Then tell me you're not," she says, shrugging. "Go on. Tell I'm wrong. Tell me that I'm delusional and have been this entire time. Because, I feel like every time I start to believe that there's nothing here, you do something to pull me back in: you look at me a certain way, or you say something vaguely meaningful, you care too much or you get angry about something a friend wouldn't be so angry about. Then I become obsessed with the idea that we'll make it other side of this—whatever the hell _this_ is—but if that isn't a reality, I need to know. I need closure. So go ahead, Harvey. Tell me that you're not in love with me. I'm _begging_ you."

He shakes his head, he's not even angry anymore, he's just appalled. "So what?" he says. "You want to hear me say it? What the hell is that going to do?"

"We're meant to be friends. But if you look at us as more than that—"

"It's not going to change anything! I'm still going to be pissed off to the point that I could literally kill you and I'm still going to be hurt because apparently you don't trust me enough to tell me anything. You get to know all of my dirty secrets and have all the pieces of me that I would never give to anyone else, and yet I'm not worthy of the same? We're supposed to be a team—Harvey and Donna—but I'm playing this game and I look over and you're kicked up on the sidelines. You're spectating. You're advising. But you won't get your hands dirty, will you? So yes, Donna, I don't have the right to have all of these feelings because we're _this_ and not _that_. But I still have them and I don't have it in me right now to pretend that I don't. Maybe tomorrow when I'm sober I can be that _rational_ _friend_ that you need. But right now I just need you to leave me the hell alone."

IV

Cold toes press against Mike's leg, nudging him, testing to see if he's still awake. He is and he's glad that she is too; his mind is circling around too many issues: the firm, the wedding, Harvey and Donna. He needs to vent.

He rolls over in bed, taking in the teary eyes of his fiancée. "You okay?"

"No really," Rachel says.

"What is it?"

"Donna." A tear slips down her cheek. "I feel awful. I should have _known_ , Mike."

"She didn't want us to know, Rach. That's not our fault."

"Doesn't matter. I'm her best friend. I should have noticed." She shuts her eyes, more tears fall, staining the pillow case.

Mike pulls her close; her wet face nuzzles into his bare chest. "Noticed what? That woman's impenetrable. Harvey didn't even know and he's been with her longer than the two of us."

"Do you think she's okay?" Rachel wonders, sniffling.

"Of course Donna's okay. She's the same Donna today as she was yesterday. It's Harvey that I'm worried about."

"Why are you—"

There's a knock, almost vulgar in its loudness as it pierces through the quiet apartment.

Rachel pulls away from Mike, frightened. "Who...?"

"Harvey?" Mike offers, pulling himself out of a tangle of sheets. _I has to be Harvey; it's 2 am._ "He's probably changed his mind about the file."

He gets up, barefoot and shirtless but he has boxers on which he figures is decent enough. He might get shit for it, but it's a 2am-desperate-Harvey, so he'll chance it or bare it, whatever.

He opens the door, bracing himself for Harvey's ridicule: _C'mon, Mike, as tempting as I am, what would Rachel think?_ But it's not Harvey.

It's Jonathan Martell, his gray eyes staring at Mike idly, like they're two strangers making eye contact across the threshold of a subway train.

Mike has the notion he's about to get murdered. It's the only thing that makes sense and strangely he isn't surprised that this would be how he'd go out. Throat slit— _Jonathan Martell is definitely a throat slitter_ —dead in the foyer in nothing but his underwear. A noble death. Poor Rachel. She deserves better. Maybe he could ask Martell if he can grab a shirt? _Wait! You can slit my throat, that's no problem. Let me just put some clothes on first._

"Mr. Ross," Martell greets, "I apologize for showing up at such an odd hour."

 _Odd_? That's not really the word Mike would use. "Two AM is more along the lines of creepy," Mike tells the man. "And how exactly did you find out where I live?"

"I asked the right people."

"Vague...but okay."

"No need to be uneasy," Martell says politely. "I'm only here to make a delivery." There is a thick folder in his hand and he passes it to Mike.

"What's this?" Mike asks.

"Information. I believe it will be helpful working Donna's case."

Mike is skeptical. "Why are you bringing this to me and not Harvey?"

"I heard you have a good memory," Martell says. "I want this burned into it."

 **A/N: Once again, thanks for all the reviews and continuing to read x**


	6. Hey Sweetheart, Guess Who

I

"You okay?"

"Not particularly."

He loses his rhythm and lifts his head from the crook of her pale, slender neck. She is turned away, her brown eyes fixed on the panoramic view of Upper East Side Manhattan, its obnoxious midnight glow drawing her attention from him like a loud roommate impressing on his privacy. He asks, "What's wrong?"

Silence stretch out between them. He waits, hovering above her, following with his eyes the convex curve of her cheek bone down to the profile of her swollen lips. _She doesn't belong here_ , he realizes. In a city full of hard edges, in a bedroom filled with everything shiny and synthetic, she lays beneath him, soft and organic, her vibrant red hair strewn atop his white pillowcases.

He can't help but move inside of her again, pressing his hips to hers, desperate to make up for lost time. "Donna?" He tries to sound soft despite his labored breathing.

She turns and looks into his eyes. A sharp spasm of euphoria courses through him—the very same emotion that scared him away the first time they slept together. It's that first sip of Scotch at the end of the day, a Porsche with the top down—ocean-side on the 95, a home run with the bases loaded, the best of Miles Davis, Harvard acceptance, the first case he ever won, his name on the door; it's every good feeling he's ever known and it rips through him. She has him on his knees, kissing the tips of designer heels he paid for. She is his queen. His sun. He'd die without her.

He dips down and kisses her, begs with his tongue to be let in, but she pulls away, tells him, "This isn't enough."

Jerked back from the edge, her words make him feel small. He's not sure he understands. "What more do you need?" he asks. He'll give her anything, he's already decided. If she asks for it, he'll make it so.

"Does it matter?" She whispers into the darkness, words that seem to spread outside the bedroom walls and echo throughout the city. "This is all you had left to give me, Harvey, and it's not enough."

His heart skips, a slipping fault line, it quakes and cracks. That spasm of euphoria spoils like a fruit that's overripe. It rots inside of him. He doesn't know how to respond; there are sentences and syllables whirling around inside his head but they're all the wrong ones.

She slips out from under him with unreal dexterity. Like a hologram or ghost, she mists between his fingers as he tries to reach for her. "Donna, please."

He fumbles naked out of the bed and chases after her. His bedroom gives way to a long hallway; white walls and white floors. He's dressed in a full tuxedo and she's wearing a beautiful white dress that clings in places and cascades in others; skin like milk, hair on fire. She grabs his hand and pulls him down the hall to a room which she enters but he does not. There's some kind of invisible force holding him back.

The room beyond is packed with medical staff operating in organized chaos. Donna stands beside a hospital bed looking over something Harvey can't see. Someone yells "Clear!" Shock delivered. Harvey feels the electricity surge through his head and light up behind his eyeballs.

"Save her, Harvey!" Donna is screaming.

But he can't move. He's frozen in place. The arrhythmic beep of heart monitor dives into a flat line and Donna falls, lifeless. Dead eyes staring out at him.

 _No. Not her. This isn't right..._

This isn't right, this isn't right...the dream is so horrifying that Harvey wakes, with sweat clinging to his chest and an erection. He lays there, breath heavy, trying to shake the unpleasant feeling sinking into his gut. Then the headache hits him, a hammer at his temples. His skull feels like a cracking ice sheet; the fissure grows larger and throbs. He sits up, woozy and delirious.

On his bedside table is some kind of electrolyte drink, a bottle of pain killers and a note that says _Take two ONLY_. He obeys, takes two, swallowing them down with the sugar water left for him. A few minutes later he vomits them up and takes two more, the unintended disobedience giving him some kind of perverse satisfaction.

No more than ten minutes pass and he's walking into the living room, bracing himself for the destruction following last night's frenzy and what he finds is…well, nothing. It's as if it never happened. The bar cart is by the dining table, same as always: decanter, glassware, Scotch bottles, everything intact. The cactus is re-potted on the coffee table; the dent he left in the dry wall when he threw the damn thing has even been plastered in and painted. The condo is pristine and he can't help but feel there is a crisp "fuck, you" in the repairs. It infuriates him. He wants to break everything all over again. He was meant to wake up and witness what she made him do. He needed this and she took it from him.

Maddened by his rage, he works himself up into another vomit session and then promptly pulls himself together. He shaves, showers, puts himself in a suit (three-piece Sharkskin, navy, with a maroon monogramed Gucci tie) and calls for his town car.

II

When Rachel arrives at the law firm, she finds Donna sitting on the break room counter reading over Anita Gibbs' Bill of Particulars; her long, flawlessly styled red hair falls around her face in lose waves, partially hiding a look that Rachel can only term as oddly amused.

"Five accounts of withholding information," Donna says without looking up. "Why can't they just lump it all into one?"

"Each act of withholding is separate and thus separate sentencing is due," Rachel explains. She approaches her friend hesitantly, waits for her attention, but Donna is too preoccupied reading to notice. "So how are you holding up?" Rachel asks, sounding awkward even to her own ears.

Donna graces her with a glance. "I didn't sleep at all last night, but other than that," she shrugs. "All is well."

Rachel presses, "Is it?" She is searching for some kind of emotion in Donna's expression, just a _hint_ that everything they've discovered in the past few days is true. Unsurprised, she comes up empty, seeing the same Donna she's always seen: a snarky, fiery redhead with everything under control. Could they be wrong? Surely someone who lost a daughter would have some sort of tell. It's like hearing about a horrendous car wreck, but the car in question is staring Rachel straight in the face, undented and functional. It doesn't make sense.

Before she can stop herself, Rachel blurts out, "I know about Alice."

Donna hops off the counter, straightens out her gray sleeveless mini dress, and offers Rachel a small smile. "I should get back to work."

Rachel knows she should let it go—obviously Donna's apt to ignore the situation—but she feels she _has_ to let her friend know that she's there for her, at the very least. "Donna, I understand if you don't want to talk about it," she says, following her friend out of the break room, "but I just want to—"

Donna stops and turns on Rachel, her eyes hot with annoyance. "You just want to what?" Donna questions. "Express your condolences?"

There is an unexpected coldness in Donna's tone that startles Rachel. "Donna…"

"Save it, Rach. There's a reason why I never told you, and this"—with her index finger, Donna traces a loop in the air around Rachel's face—"is exactly why."

"Because I'm _heartbroken_ for you?"

"Because you've come to me all weepy, wanting to have some sort of grievance session, and I'm not willing to talk about it. _Ever_. So either walk away or change the subject."

"I'm not trying to pressure you into talking about it," Rachel says. "I'm being a friend."

"Are you sure that's what this is?" Donna's eyes are blazing now. "Because it seems to me that you're trying to apologize to me about my dead daughter. And I get it. You get to walk away feeling like you did your part, but what the hell does that apology do for me?"

Rachel opens her mouth to defend herself—Donna's anger has confused her, and so has her accusations—she says, carefully, "My only agenda here is to make sure you're okay."

"Well, I'm fine," Donna says and turns to leave, adding as she goes, "and I would be a whole lot better if everyone just stayed the hell out of my business."

III

 _She wakes to an unfamiliar man's voice, speaking softly words she cannot quite decipher. When she lifts her lids, her daughter, Alice, is in full view, wide-awake in her hospital bed, grinning in a way Donna never thought she'd see again. The last twenty-four hours had been hell; first respiratory distress and then kidney failure, the doctors put a neck line in and started emergency dialysis, and Alice had been in a state of inconsolable terror, pain and tears since. Donna thinks she must be dreaming because the image before her is just too beautiful: big blue eyes, freckled face, happy smile. She burns it into her memory, holds on to it white knuckle tight, like a lifeline. She wants to go to her, scoop her up, take her in, but that deep voice breaks the frame—_

" _You missed our date." Donna sees him now, standing at the far side of the room, across from the couch she's curled up on. He's well-dressed and tall, with a classic handsomeness that reminds her of Marlon Brando in_ A Street Car Named Desire _. There is confidence about him that probably pushes the boundary of arrogance. She doesn't recognize him, and he can't be one of Johnny's friends because Johnny doesn't have friends. So who is he? "That's three times now you've stood me up."_

" _I didn't mean to," Alice tells him, stopping to take a heavy breath as if the single phrase wears her out, but she grins through it. "I'm just hooked up"—another gulp of air—"to all of this junk."_

 _The man has the decency to check the cannula in her nose; he follows the tubing to the oxygen saturation monitor and stares at it._ It's okay. _Donna wants to tell him._ She's just excited. _But she refrains, afraid she'll scare him away._

" _This is a lot junk," he agrees, satisfied enough with the reading on the monitor to undo the button of his suit jacket and relax back into the chair next to Alice's bedside. "I'll let you off. But just know my feelings are hurt."_

 _They share a smile. Alice says, "I thought Harvey Specter didn't have feelings."_

Harvey. Of course. _Her daughter only talks about the man constantly. He has become her idol. Donna's gone through weeks of Harvey-this and Harvey-that: law, Harvard, baseball, Jazz; not exactly things a little girl typically invests herself in, but Donna figures Alice is trying to fill the void brought on by the absence of her father. She deserves a good male role model in her life and this Harvey seems decent enough, although Alice has picked up a foul mouth since meeting him, but Donna's decided she'll let this slide._

 _She fights the urge to jump up and thank him; this stranger who has taken an initiative that her own husband never would and that he absolutely didn't have to take, but she knows from experience the best thanks she can give him is to keep quiet and pretend to be asleep. Being the mother of a dying child makes you into a pariah: no one really looks you in the eyes anymore and no one truly knows what to say. It's awkward and painful and best left avoided._

 _On a side note: Donna can't help but be impressed with her little girl; getting a hunky attorney to come in and sit at her bedside, she truly is her mother's daughter._

" _Did you win the cop killer case?" Alice is asking him. Her breathing is better. Normal._

" _What do you think?" he says._

 _She smiles. "You crushed him."_

" _Made him cry on the stands. Two life sentences. No parole." He grins at her. "God, I'm good."_

" _I wish I could've seen."_

" _Next time."_

 _Alice turns away from him, eyes staring straight ahead at the muted TV screen beside Donna. "I won't be here next time."_

 _Harvey's dark eyes narrow, an expression Donna feels is too severe to be giving a little girl. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"_

 _She turns to him, furious that she has to say the words: "I'm dying."_

 _Donna's heart thuds heavy in her chest; it's too much. A mother should never have to hear her child say these words. It's not fair. She wants to scream, but at who? Where does she direct her anger?_

 _Harvey shakes his head, tells Alice, "Quit being dramatic. You're not dying."_

" _I'm not being dramatic."_

" _So what?" He says, "You're just going to lay here and give up?"_

 _Alice's lips begin to quiver and turn down at the corners. Her eyes fill up with tears until they spill over and run down her freckled cheeks. He's upset her now, and Donna thinks maybe she'll direct her anger at him._

" _Listen to me. We don't give up. What did I tell you you're supposed to do when you're getting beat?"_

 _Alice sniffs and wipes a tear away with a clenched fist. "Play harder."_

" _That's right. You play harder."_

" _But I can't play any harder, Harvey, and I don't want you to be mad at me when I lose!"_

 _He stands up and Donna thinks he's going to walk out and she's ready to bolt after him._ Don't you leave her like this! _But he walks toward her on the couch, stops in front of the TV and stares out into space, angry and teary-eyed. Donna closes her eyes and lets him have his moment, imagining his mind reeling with the thoughts that tear away at her every second of every day:_ How do I fix this? A better hospital? A miracle cancer trial? A second opinion? Can I give her my kidneys? Cryopreservation? How do I fix this? How do I fix this? How do I fix this?

" _Please, don't be mad me," Alice says into the growing silence._

 _Donna hears Harvey sigh. "I'm not mad at you, Alice."_

" _You are!" Alice cries out. "You're mad!"_

 _Donna opens her eyes to see Harvey take her crying daughter's head into his hands; she's putting up such a wail for him that she has to gasp for breaths between her sobs. "Hey, look at me," he says gently. "I'm not mad. Do I look mad?"_

" _But you called me Alice and you never do that," she tells him in a high pitched croak. "It's always Pipsqueak or Peewee or Smalls or Dwarf."_

 _Harvey laughs and Donna shuts her eyes again, talking in the sound of it. She doesn't know how, but it seems to remove all of the weight from the room, like a gentle breeze on a hot day. "Hush peanut. You're going to wake your mom."_

 _Alice gasps, mood flipping a 180, elated. "We should! She wants to meet you."_

" _No—that's okay." He's abrupt. It's just as she suspected, he's terrified to face her. "I'm sure she's exhausted. Let her sleep."_

 _Harvey stays and talks with Alice for a long time. They go over his cases and her goals list. He even lets her draw a mustache on him—handlebars with a goatee—and Donna thinks the addition of her child's messy scrawls on his face makes him look even more handsome._

 _At some point she falls back to sleep, and is woken up some time later by the oncologist with news of Alice's blood work. The doctor looks grave; bad news, that's all it's been. She wishes she wasn't alone to hear it, but when your child fights cancer as long as Alice has that support system you had in the beginning dwindles. Maybe people think it gets easier to deal with: a sick kid, the bad news. But it never does._

 _Alice is asleep and Harvey is still there, his attention blatantly honed in on the TV screen. Donna stands up and tells the doctor, "Let's talk about this in the hall."_

 _As she walks out, Harvey's eyes slide over and brush against her, and it surprises her how shy and soft his glance is. It sends goose bumps up her arms as if he's reached out and caressed her, and when she expects him to look away he boldly holds on. Maybe he'll stay, she thinks. Maybe this stranger will take her face in his hands like he did for Alice and hold her while she sobs. Maybe she doesn't have to be alone after all._

 _And then he looks away, pulling himself out from beneath her oppressive rain cloud, and that's okay. This is her nightmare, not his._

IV

Harvey can't seem to concentrate. His fight with Donna from the night before replays in his head, stuck looping on all the worst moments: the hatred in her expression after he threw the cactus, the breathless feeling when she accused him of being in love with her, the moment when their rage clashed and he wasn't sure of whether he want to strangle her, cry in her arms, or kiss her. There is turmoil inside of him, rage at the surface, pain underneath, and at his center something that he refuses to analyze but which has him wanting to rush to her cubicle and beg for her forgiveness, even though he's the one who's been wronged in this circumstance.

He sits at his desk staring down at a list of financials from one of the subpoenaed companies. None of the numbers make any sense to him and he's pretty sure he's looked over the same column five times already, and he wishes she would just walk into his office and hand him something to sign so that he can glare at her. _Thirteen years a traitor_ , he thinks, he'll fire her and that could be the title of her memoir. It'd be interesting read: psychotic ex-husband, dead kid, defrauding the US and how she hid it all for thirteen goddamn years. She's a fucking expert. He'd buy it.

He tell himself, _I hate her,_ and gives up on the financials—he'll pass the workload to Louis; it's more up his street anyway—and picks up the phone, deciding to give an old friend a ring. He needs a distraction.

"Hello?" Her cool voice rouses the attorney in him. His mind miraculously clears. Who would have thought Anita Gibbs would be his savoir. He'll have to phone her up more often.

"Hey, Sweetheart. Guess who."

"Harvey." He can almost hear the smug smile curl around his name. "How is your firm of frauds and criminals holding up?"

"Top class. Thanks for asking. How is Hell this time of year? Is it bathing suit weather yet?"

"Oh, spectacular! I'm not sure if you've heard but I have a new witness in the Duke-Sanger case. Really seals the deal. I don't want to give too much away, but if Donna has any special requests before she's hauled off to prison, do let me know. Bottom bunk rather than top, that sort of thing. I'm no miracle worker, but I do have some pull."

"Gibbs, cut the shit. You don't want Donna. You want Jonathan Martell, and given her history with him I'm sure she has enough information for us to work out some form of immunity in exchange for testimony."

"Do you even speak to your clients? I already offered her immunity in exchange for testimony. She refused."

He grows rigid, inwardly cursing Donna for her stupidity. "She's changed her mind," he lies.

"Doesn't matter. I don't need her."

"It will give you a solid case."

"My case is bulletproof and dragging your secretary out from beneath you is just a bonus."

"You sure you want to take me on again, Anita? You won't win."

"You're too sure of yourself, Harvey. It makes me wonder if you have all of the facts."

"Do you really think I need the facts? Mike was a fraud and now he's a lawyer. I get what I want and you would do well to remember who you're up against. Let's keep in touch."

He hangs up abruptly, cutting Gibbs off mid-sentence. There is no moment to let any of it sink in, he's up and out of his office, shouting at Donna's back, "Gibbs offered you a deal, why didn't you take it?"

Donna's brown eyes look up at him and he's immediately hit with an assortment of conflicting emotions. There's his Donna; the Donna in his dreams; the Donna at the hospital. It's a whirlwind.

"She wanted me to testify against Jonathan."

"And he's worth going to prison for?" he asks, outraged.

She shakes her head. "No."

"Then why the hell didn't you testify?"

"Because she's scared of him," Mike says coming up behind Harvey, and then to Donna he adds, "Now are you going to tell him about the man you married, or should I?"

 **A/N: As others have already mentioned, the season 7 premiere has been a total let down and this chapter was really hard to find the inspiration to finish in the wake of that. But I powered through it, thankfully. This chapter is kind of the weak link into two bigger chapter where things happen (but like actually happen, not like suits promo happen) so sorry if it's a little boring or lacking action. Still, hope you guys enjoy! :)**


	7. Fancy a Beer?

I

"Alright," Harvey says once his office door is shut behind him. "One of you better start talking."

Mike and Donna exchange looks. Glimpsing fear and hesitation in the redhead's eyes Mike decides to spare her the unpleasantness of having to spill on a past that obviously still haunts her. He holds the file Jonathan gave him last night, the weight of it is like an anchor dragging at him. He tosses it onto Harvey's desk, but the heaviness seems to linger.

"Jonathan Martell showed up at my apartment last night and gave me this," Mike says.

Harvey walks around to his desk, opens the file and studies it. A moment passes and the severity of what he's looking at must dawn on him because he has to sit down to continue. Mike remembers the content of each page Harvey flips past: New York Senator, Hudson Sindel, White House Chief of Staff, Jay Berling, New York City Attorney General, Evan O'Loughlin. It's a big list of powerful people, each with crippling information Martell has uncovered about them: tax evasion, bribery, distribution of child pornography, statutory rape. The names are terrifying. The crimes are ugly. A chilling voice over mimicking the southern drawl of Frank Underwood echoes inside Mike's head: _The best thing about human beings is they stack so neatly._

Harvey gets halfway through the file when he decides he's seen enough. "How do we know this isn't all bullshit?"

"Because you and Cahill are in there for Collusion," Mike says. "Which isn't so bad, but four out of the five attorneys working NYC's disbarment cases are also in there."

Harvey sits forward, eyes intent. "So you think this is a threat?"

"The guy showed up at my doorstep at two in the morning saying he wanted this burned into my memory." Mike shrugs. "Sounds like a threat to me and I would bet—"

"It's not a threat," Donna interrupts. Her tone is mild—maybe even pleasantly nonchalant—for such a tense situation, and Mike can't help but be unsettled by this. "Jonathan is very black and white. If this was a threat you'd know."

"What then?" Harvey asks. "A warning?"

Donna inclines her head slightly, thinking it over. "No, not a warning."

"I don't see what else it could be." Mike turns to Harvey to see what his take is, but Harvey's attention is sharply fixed on Donna. They stare each other down in silence; caught in one of their weird telepathic eye conversations and Mike is forced to look back and forth between the two of them trying to pick up on the unsaid.

Mike loses his patience. "Yo. Mom and Dad, I get it. This is a heavy subject, but I'm not some delicate baby bird, okay? Let me in on this."

Donna ignores him. Harvey at least makes the effort to flick his glaze over before returning it to the redhead.

"I think this is a friendly gesture," Donna says after a moment. "It's the only thing that makes sense."

"If this is meant to be friendly he has a really screwed up way of showing it," Mike argues.

Donna offers the young lawyer a meek smile. "You should see him try to be romantic."

 _Let me guess. Knives are involved?_ Mike bites back the joke, figuring his ignorance of Donna's ex-marital relationship may lead to this being regarded as tasteless. Who knows what kind of damage this guy did to her.

Harvey looks at Donna with some mistrust. "Why would he include me in this if his intent isn't malicious?"

"It's like you said," Donna tells him, "How else would you judge his credibility? It's not like he's going to hand you any evidence."

"So where is the _friendly_ in this then?" Mike asks.

"Gibbs' boss," Harvey surmises. "If Jonathan has Evan O'Loughlin by the balls he has the power to shut Anita down."

"Then what? He gets to walk away?" Mike is outraged. "He's helped fund a war that's ruined the lives of millions of people. He can't just escape justice because one man couldn't keep his dick in his pants."

"You're right. He can't." Harvey agrees. "The cases against Jonathan Martell and Duke-Sanger are too publicized to be swept under the rug. America wants heads on a platter and one man can't stop that. But Donna's case…that's different." Then, to Donna, Harvey says: "Is this why you wouldn't testify against him? You already knew he'd pull some immoral shit to get you out of it?"

"No." Donna gives him a slight frown. "I wouldn't testify because I'm not an idiot. Five years in prison is a spa day compared to what Jonathan and his employers would do to me if they found out I spilled their secrets."

"And what would they do?"

"I don't know, Harvey. All I know is Jonathan makes his enemies miraculously go away."

Silence greets this. Then, not without respect, and maybe even with an actual curiosity, Harvey says: "What the hell were you thinking marrying this guy?"

The king of not-giving-a-shit-about-anyone's-personal-life, seems to be asking a question that exceeds far beyond his depth. Mike doesn't think there is any book or diagram in the world that would explain to a man like Harvey Specter that sometimes you fall in love with the wrong people. Like tripping on the sidewalk, you collapse into it, because normal people experience moments of clumsiness. But Harvey is too careful and deliberate to trip. Love to him is an unambiguous choice. A true or false. A right or wrong. More of a noun than a verb.

Donna must realize this because she shakes her head at the question. Her expression seems to say, _let's not go there._

Harvey doesn't press the subject.

II

Evening brings with it a mid-summer thunderstorm. The seven o'clock news says there are five more companies found with ties to the Duke-Sanger Illegal Arms Scandal. The US Attorney General Joseph Cox is expected today to formally charge the companies they deem guilty in unlawful exchanges. Donna still hasn't slept and paces around her apartment trying to wear herself down. She is in a daze, too much is happening too fast, and no matter how much she tries to convince herself that this is all real—Harvey knows, Mike knows, Rachel knows, Johnny is back—it just doesn't sink in. She is numb and most of all tired. Her head hurts; her eyes burn; her limbs feel like weights.

She shuts the TV off, pours herself a glass of wine and stands looking out at the skyline. The city is shrouded in a pessimistic gray which seems to sucks the life right out of her. Manhattan has been giving her this effect lately. She feels a sense of entrapment; this tug of depression like a phantom chain at her ankle.

 _Leave_.

The thought pops into her head like a lightning bolt splitting against the horizon. And why couldn't she? She's done it before. A chicken left marinating in the refrigerator, a table set for two (when it should have been three), her footsteps imprinted into the December snow leading out of Tribeca and never a returning set. She has it in her: the boldness to leave with nothing, to never look back, to start over. Not a mother, not a wife, not a secretary, but something else, somewhere else.

Her blackberry painted nails tap an anxious rhythm against the side of her wine glass. She bites the edge of her bottom lip, thinking dangerously: _what's stopping me_? But she already knows the answer to this question because she's asked it of herself an innumerable amount of times.

She can't quit _him_. Harvey Specter, a man who holds her without ever touching her. That Phantom chain. It's like she ran away from one tragedy to wind up in another. Desperately and hopelessly in love with a man who will never love her—or at least not in the ways she needs—and she keeps trying and trying and trying and all he does is take and take and take without ever reciprocating. But she doesn't demand reciprocation and maybe that's on her.

Amid these thoughts there is a knock. Donna jumps, startled by the unexpected noise; wine slouches up and over the brim of her glass, sending a deep red liquid trickling down her pale wrist. "Shit," she breathes, catching drops in her free hand as she makes for the kitchen.

Another knock comes, a little louder than the first but not by much. She knows who it is by this knock alone and shouts over her shoulder as she rinses and dries her hands that she'll be there in a moment.

As she expected, Rachel stands at the door, dressed down in jeans and a denim button up. She has a pair of stylish ankle tie flats on that Donna has to fight the urge to complement because she's still pissed off at her. She remembers Rachel's face in the break room, that earnest sympathy: _you were a mother and now you're not. How sad._ And now she's fighting the urge to slam the door in the young woman's face.

"Hey," Rachel says, looking worried and possibly even regretful. The Donna before her is not what she's used to: tired and worn down, unsmiling; a foreigner inhabiting her friend's body. Donna thinks if she were to look in the mirror, she'd see for the first time in a long time her old self. "They had a wine sale at Sherry-Lehmann's." Rachel smiles, holding up a tote that clangs with bumping bottles. "I thought we could have a girl's night."

"I'm exhausted, Rach." Donna says, and then adds dismissively, "Maybe another night."

The smile falls from Rachel's lips. "Donna…" Her expression continues to slip until she's back to giving her _that look_.

"Goddamnit." Donna sighs. "Look, I know you have good intentions and you think you're being helpful, but you coming over here, bombarding me with your sympathy, is like opening up her coffin and asking me to look inside. So, please, Rachel, just go home."

Donna starts to shut the door, but Rachel steps in the way. "No— _you listen to me_. I'm not here to talk about her; I'm here because _you need me_. So you can push me away, you can slam that door in my face, you can lash out, yell, whatever, and _I'll still be here_. I'll pitch a tent and wait. Gladly. Because you're my best friend and I love you and I'm not going anywhere." She drops her tote to the floor and folds her arms across her chest, defiant and immovable. "So go on, let your inner bitch out. I can handle it."

For a moment Donna can only gape at the young woman, genuinely surprised by someone's behavior for one of the few times in her life. Never in all of her years has she had a friend reach into the hole she retreats into and drag her out like this. _Let your inner bitch out._ Did she really just say that? The audacity...

Donna's lips curl into a smile and Rachel's lips lift along with hers. They both laugh. The tension between them seems to dissipate.

Donna gestures to the tote bag at their feet. "Cab Sauv?" she asks.

"Extra dry."

She steps aside, offering Rachel entry. "Get in here."

III

By the time Harvey gets to Lower Manhattan the rain is coming down so hard it seems to bounce against the sidewalk. He steps out of his town car at the Duane intersection, beside the limestone hotel, and runs up the street toward the address he has mapped on his phone. He is soaked when he gets to the building entrance, his oxfords wet to his socks. The best he can manage against his disheveled appearance is a hand through his hair, tousling it up. He feels soggy and edgy, but he struts through the doors with his normal easy confidence.

He takes the elevator to the forty-forth floor, finds the apartment he's looking for and knocks without hesitation. On the other side of the door a dog barks, paws strike a hard surface in a rapid excited succession. A man says "Sit, Molly," and a moment later the door swings open to reveal Jonathan Martell dressed in a white V-neck and jeans. His dark hair is a little too long and sticks up chaotically; it makes Harvey feel better about his own messy appearance. The dog—a golden retriever with a coat the color of mahogany—lets out a whine, tail wagging in an uncontrollable swing that's beats rhythmically against Jonathan's leg.

Without a word the man moves aside, his long arm sweeping out, offering Harvey entrance. The moment Harvey steps through the door the dog is at his knees sniffing his clothing, nuzzling against his hand, licking at his fingertips. When her nose dives for his crotch, he yields and knells down to give her a decent scratch behind the ears.

"We don't get a lot of visitors," Jonathan says apologetically, watching idly as his dog licks savagely at Harvey's face. "Careful now, she might piss on your feet. She gets too excited."

"Okay, girl, that's enough," Harvey tells the pup, ruffling her fur as he stands. He follows Jonathan out of the foyer and into a large industrial looking kitchen; the appliances are all chrome, the walls are rustic red brick that stack up to a glass ceiling.

"Fancy a beer?" Jonathan asks.

"What do you have?"

"Ale, lager, some disgusting German pilsner that tastes like bong water." Jonathan pulls his fridge open and surveys his stock. Harvey glimpses on the steel door a drawing hanging from a plastic magnet; three crayoned stick figures conveniently labeled: Mom, Dad, Alice; beneath is a note in the large, inexperience handwriting of a child: _To Mommy and Daddy. I love you._ Harvey feels a little sick as the reality of the situation starts to truly sink in. She was real. She was here. She was _his._

"I'll take an ale," he hears himself say.

"Pale or dark?"

"Dark."

A beer appears around the side of the door, waggles at him. Harvey takes it and allows himself a glance around the loft as Jonathan continues to dig around for his own drink.

The apartment is a triplex and obviously more expensive than Harvey's single floor penthouse. The architecture is outlandishly elegant, with cast iron pillars, wood floors and exposed brick walls. The oversized windows and skylights make for a dramatic experience as the rain clatters loudly overhead and the dark clouds swirl above them ominously. Still there is a comfortable domesticity about the place, something in the decorations and color palette, a warm, vibrant personality haunting the rooms. Then it clicks: _Donna._ He sees her everywhere: in the paisley accented wall, in the multicolored china, the throw pillows, the rugs, the indoor plants. This was her home.

Jonathan pops the cap of his beer and hands the bottle opener to Harvey. He says, "I knew you'd show up here, but I thought you'd be a bit more _passionate_. I can't say I'm not disappointed."

"Well, I was planning on beating the shit out of you, but—"

"You lost your nerve?"

"No, my socks got wet." Harvey removes the cap from his beer and takes a deep swig. Jonathan leans lazily against his counter, eyeing him carefully. "Nothing's more sobering than soggy feet."

Jonathan nods and suggests amicably: "I can toss them in the dryer for you, if you'd like?"

It hits Harvey then of what a strange world he's entered. He stands at heart of Tribeca, in Donna's old home, next to a drawing done by her deceased daughter, having a beer with her ex-husband. Surely this has to be a nightmare?

"Thanks, but I don't expect to be here long."

"Suit yourself." Jonathan lifts himself off the counter and walks toward the living room. "Come then, let's discuss what you're here for."

IV

"Why is everything is so expensive?" Rachel pouts, flipping through a bridal magazine. "The catering, my dress, Mike's tux—you know, I did the math and I could buy a house in Nebraska for the price of just those three things."

Donna refills both of their glasses and then sits down next to Rachel on the couch, curling her feet up under her. "True. But the food will be amazing and your dress is gorgeous and Mike will look smoking hot. Plus, you're saving a ton of money having the reception at Harvey's." Donna shrugs, sips her wine, and then adds, "And who the hell wants to live in _Nebraska_? I'd pay one million not to."

Rachel nearly spits her drink, choking down a laugh. " _God_. I love you. Why am I marrying Mike?"

"You can still call off the wedding."

Rachel smirks and nudges Donna with her foot. "Don't tempt me."

Thunder booms above them. Rachel pictures bombs dropping out of airplanes. She doesn't know why but her mind always goes there, ever since she was a little girl. Perhaps she read too many World War II books as a child; she was obsessed for a period over how things could fall apart so quickly and in such a massive way. Now here she is, in her mid-thirties, and the sound still spooks her in a way that sends chills up her arms.

Across from her Donna is calm to the point of serenity, idly leafing through a catalog. Feeling Rachel's eyes, she glances up and smiles at her in a pleasant knowing way. Rachel sees it now—that innate maternal temperament—it's like one of those optical illusions where at first you see only a vase but then someone points out the alternative—two faces, a beach ball, whatever—and your perception switches and yes, there it is, the reverse side. How could she have missed this when it has been staring at her so blatantly?

"Have you guys picked your song yet?" Donna asks.

Rachel rolls her eyes. "I don't think Mike takes it seriously. He keeps saying he wants it to be _Hello_ by Lionel Richie, but you can't _dance_ to that."

Donna shrugs. "Could be worse."

"What was yours?"

"Mine?"

"Your song."

Donna frowns and shakes her head.

"So, Jonathan is off limits too?"

"Yup."

Rachel lets out an irritated sigh and gulps her wine, giving Donna an intense stare over the brim of her glass. _I'll have you spilling your dark and dirty by the end of the night_ , she thinks, and Donna, as if reading Rachel's mind, smirks at the challenge.

"I guess I don't care what our song is," Rachel says. Something is starting to mesh; she feels loose and confident, coming into a nice buzz. She adds, "What I really care about is seeing you and Harvey dance together."

Donna face contorts almost theatrically—disgust with just a hint of confusion—making if seem as if Rachel is romanticizing about her and a close relative. Rachel doesn't buy it. "Why?" Donna asks.

"Because it'll be the moment where you both realize you're stupidly in love with each other."

"Oh, for Christ's sake."

"Mike and I have a bet: I say first dance, he says when Harvey _accidentally_ catches my garter."

"You guys are delusional. And for your information, I'm not dancing with Harvey. I'll be wearing my favorite Valentinos and I can't have that gorilla stepping all over my feet."

"You can take them off."

"I never take my shoes off. It's a sign of weakness."

Rachel huffs. "You deserve an award for your stubbornness."

"I deserve an award for a lot things."

It seems so obvious to Rachel: she loves him, he loves her, they're both single. So why aren't they together? Who is resisting who and how can the other believe that bullshit? How complicated does their dynamic have to be for them to put themselves through this kind of lovesick purgatory? It's cruel to watch. They see each other _every_ day. They work together, walk the same halls, talk, joke, laugh and go on pretending that every time their eyes lock sparks don't fly. Everyone sees it—sometimes Rachel and Mike have to back out of the room because the "fuck me eyes" are so intense they feel like they're intruding on a private moment. Rachel used to think it was just a matter of time before they took the plunge, but now she's starting to feel more like it's a matter of the stars aligning. And that makes her sad, for both of them.

Donna's phone goes off on the coffee table. **Incoming Call: Lord Bardolph** and center screen is a picture of Louis in a bathtub full of mud. Donna reaches over and slides her finger across to answer.

"Louis. You're on speaker and Rachel is here, so if you're thinking about criticizing how she's handling the associates, think twice."

"Goddamnit, Donna," Louis snaps. "You're such a traitor."

"Yes. I know. I'm so terrible. Anyway, it's Friday evening and we're trying to relax, so if this can wait until Monday—"

"No, it can't. I need you to read _Les Mis_ to me in your British accent like you did the night Bruno passed. I'm having a crisis and that's the only thing I can think of that will simmer me down."

"What are you a soup?"

"My emotions are very soup-like, yes."

"Louis—"

"And when you read Cosette try not to sound so damn arousing this time. She's supposed to be innocent and I feel like you sexualize her for me."

"Okay, my Cosette is dead on. I've been complimented by Claude-Michel Schönberg himself for my reenactment of her."

"Schönberg is a composure. What the hell does he know?"

Donna almost growls, her index finger cast out like she's debating whether or not to hang up on him. Rachel grabs her wrist. "Maybe we should invite him over," she whispers.

Under her breath, Donna bites out: " _Are you crazy_?"

"Tara _just_ left him and now he has to spend Friday night by himself? That's sad."

Donna lets her angry posture relax out with a sigh. She says flatly, "Louis, would you like to come over and have wine with us?"

Louis gasps. Something clatters and crashes on his end. There is a distant _shitshitshit_ and then he's back, out of breath, saying, "I was going to _Feng Shui_ my breakfast nook, but—who the hell am I kidding? I'd be _honored._ Do you have a Bluetooth speaker system? I have a dance party playlist I've been meaning to try out. And—oh, I know this won't be an issue, but as a courtesy, I have to bring Gretchen. My therapist says I should journal about all of my social interactions for the next month, but my Dictaphone is being upgraded."

Rachel bites down on her bottom lip, trying not to laugh. Donna rolls her eyes up toward the heavens, muttering, "Jesus, kill me."

V

Following Jonathan, Harvey enters the living room with the golden retriever trekking at his heels. He receives his final confirmation—that last nail in the coffin that separates the Donna he knows from this other woman—when he sees the family portrait hanging above the fire place. Donna is holding a toddler in her arms, her hair is a dark auburn, the baby's is a sun bleached orange. Jonathan is beside the two girls, animated in a way that makes it seems as if he's done a quick jump into the frame to give Donna a loving kiss on the cheek. They look happy and Donna looks beautiful, smiling the way she is, like she has her whole world in order. It shatters him.

Up until this point Harvey has been okay—maybe because it didn't feel real, or it hadn't sunk in, or he didn't want to believe it was true. But there's no denying it now. She really lived this other life, she really had that much happiness and then had it ripped away…and the worst part is he should have _known_. He should have noticed her loss. Grief. Devastation. Whatever it is she feels because she must be hurting in some silent way that he's been oblivious to.

"Tragic, isn't it?" Jonathan says, collapsing into a chair at the center of the room. His stare is a cool, calculating gray that remains transfixed on Harvey as fights to keep his composure. Seeing straight through him, Jonathan adds, "She never told you, did she? I got that impression when you came see me at the office. I would have told you then, but I felt I shouldn't impose on whatever never-never land Donna's got herself living in. Denial is a fragile equilibrium. We wouldn't want to send her back over the edge."

"You sound bitter," Harvey says quietly, feeling that the room deserves the respectful tones of a mausoleum. He remembers his beer, takes sip, would gulp it—chug it if he could, but he already feels sick.

"You mistake me, Harvey. I hardly feel anything anymore." Jonathan pats the couch next to him, and Harvey is unsure if he wants him to sit or the dog. They both obey, Harvey wading over on heavy legs. A sleep walker. He sits himself down a couch that was Donna's (it's a mustard color—bold but it works well with the red brick), moving aside a throw pillow that was Donna's. The dog curls up next to him and rests her head in his lap. Harvey looks to Jonathan to fill the growing silence. The ex-husband continues, "Although I would say in my defense I'm entitled to a little bitterness. She did leave me, you know."

It's Harvey's turn to speak. He's not sure if he can get words out, his mouth feels too dry. He takes a time-buying swig of his beer, says in a surprisingly natural way, "Did you deserve it?"

"Blame, blame, blame. Who do you blame?" Jonathan plucks at the fabric of his chair and stares Harvey down. Vacant. Expressionless. Not for the first time, Harvey finds himself questioning Jonathan's sanity. "They say eighty percent of bereaved parents end up divorced. I went to a counseling session about it just after Alice died. Donna had made the arrangements beforehand, said it would be good for us to recognize the obstacles we'd be facing. Which is quite comical in hindsight, because cut to the actual session and Donna doesn't even show up. She wouldn't leave the house. Alice dying, it was like…Donna died with her. She had folded in on herself. Become desolate and inconsolable. I would come home from work and try to talk to her, try to engage and it was in one ear out the other. Some nights she wouldn't even look at me. I felt like I was throwing fists at a steel door that was never going to open.

"Fast forward to six months later and she's gone. I sat up every night for weeks waiting for her to come home, knowing she had to come home because her closet was still full of her clothes and her cell phone was on the counter and her husband—a shit husband, I'll admit, but a husband all the same—was there waiting for her. But as you already know, she never came back and the next I hear she's working at the DA. Odd, right?"

"Are you implying something?" Harvey asks.

"Is there something to imply?"

"She was already working for the DA when I met her."

"Was she? Interesting." Jonathan gives nothing away. Harvey can't tell if he's angry or genuinely curious. The man is a blank slate and he wonders pointlessly how he'd fair against him in poker.

Harvey feels the need to make one thing clear: "I didn't have an affair with her."

"Oh, I know. Harvey Specter, the notorious womanizer with morals. I got your M.O. You know, we have a certain symmetry in that regard. My mother was unfaithful too. In fact, I was a product of her infidelity. The illegitimate child. It was a constant uphill battle for me, trying to earn the respect and love of my father. Really screwed me up."

"Not to be an asshole," Harvey says, "but I didn't come here to talk about your daddy issues."

"Oh. My apologies. What was it you wanted to discuss?"

"You showing up at Mike Ross's apartment in the middle of the night." Harvey stares at Jonathan levelly. "You could have brought that file to me and instead you took it to him. I take that as a threat."

Jonathan nods in understanding. "I wasn't aware of how late it was and I can assure you that it won't happen again."

"You're full of shit."

"Okay. Fine. You caught me." Jonathan throws up his hands. "It was a threat. So now we've established that, let's talk terms. I would like to think we're on the same side in this messy situation—allies, if you will. But I want to make sure you understand: if anything happens to Donna, I'll destroy you."

Normally Harvey doesn't take well to being strong armed and threatened, but he can't help but find himself in agreement with these terms. If anything bad were to happen to Donna he'd probably welcome the destruction.

He gives Jonathan his honesty: "I would never let anything happen to her."

Jonathan reaches his arm over, offering Harvey his hand to shake. Harvey stares at it a moment, long fingers, stubby nails; he pictures the man's reptilian gaze locked in on him with all the patience in the world. Taking Jonathan's hand, Harvey expects something more inanimate feeling, but he is warm and human and for some unexplainable reason this makes the hair on the back of Harvey's neck rise.

VI

 **Today** 8:57 PM

 **Harvey:** Can I see you tonight?

 **Donna:** I don't think tonight is a good time

 **Donna:** I have a lot on

 **Harvey:** Donna I'm trying to fix this

 **Donna:** Harvey I would love nothing more than to have you come here so we can work this out but I'm seriously telling you tonight is not a good time

 **Donna:** Rachel has been fighting with Louis since he got here

 **Harvey:** What?

 **Harvey:** Louis is there?

 **Donna:** He said her wedding dress is very chic

 **Donna:** But everyone knows chic means boring

 **Harvey:** I'm lost

 **Donna:** Me too

 **Harvey:** So Louis and Rachel are at your apartment?

 **Donna:** And Mike and Gretchen

 **Harvey:** Why wasn't I invited?

 **Donna:** No one was invited

 **Donna:** This just happened and I don't know how to stop it

 **Harvey:** How long do you think everyone will be there?

 **Donna:** Louis' baroque era playlist is 32 hours long if that's any indication

 **Harvey:** Do you need me to come shut it down?

 **Donna:** You would do that for me?

 **Harvey:** I would do anything for you

 **Donna:** But you're mad at me

 **Harvey:** I am. Very mad. But I'm willing to put that aside for you if you need me

 **Donna:** Thank you Harvey

 **Harvey:** See you soon?

 **Donna:** Wait

 **Donna:** Not too soon

 **Donna:** I need time to hide all of my expensive glassware & cactuses

 **Donna:** Or is it cacti?

 **Harvey:** You're not funny

 **Donna:** See you soon

 **A/N: I know this chapter was a bit heavy and sad, but the next one will be a lot more fun ;)**


	8. For Morale

**FYI: This is a huge update. If you can't read it in one sitting, act II is more of a stand alone and can be skipped :)**

I

The drive to Donna's apartment from Tribeca takes forever; the elevator ride up to her floor is endless. When Harvey gets to door 206 he is half convinced she won't be there.

There is a reason attached to his fear, something subconscious lurking in the background. He can feel it in the rapid thoughts reeling through his mind, but he refuses to slow down and analyze them.

 _Closet still full of her clothes, cell phone on the counter…_

 _She never came back._

He pounds at her door, more abrasive than he intends to but his fist seems to have fallen into rhythm with his hammering heart. He hears music on the other side, someone laughing, seconds pass and stretch out in his mind.

 _I was throwing fists at a steel door that was never going to open._

He's about to knock again, maybe even kick the door in, when he hears the deadbolt slide.

Rachel, looking visibly drunk, greets him in the doorway. "Harvey?" She runs a hand through her hair, smiles lazily at him. "What are you doing here?"

He ignores Rachel—a bad habit he intends to work on—and peers around her, trying to catch a glimpse of the redhead. That's all he needs, a glimpse, just to see her inhabiting the same space as him; a surmountable, within-reach distance because at the moment it feels like she's thousands of miles away.

The laugher he heard comes from Gretchen. The older woman is sitting on Donna's couch, one hand clenching her stomach, the other wiping tears from her eyes as she watches Louis flail around in front of her to the Latin beat of _Hips Don't Lie_. Harvey has witnessed this exact dance routine on at least four separate occasions (and will never admit it aloud but it's actually sort of impressive).

Mike is across the room, seated at the dining table—although Harvey would hardly call it _seated_ , it's more like the kid's collapsed down into a lazy, jaunty angled heap, feet kicked up carelessly on whatever surface occurred to him. He is stuffing his face with pizza and looking off toward the commotion in the living room with an expression that is both amused and bewildered. Donna is notably absent from the scene.

Harvey moves passed Rachel, who even in her drunken state still shrinks back, instinctively terrified by him.

Mike notices Harvey in his peripheral. "Uh-oh. Party's over. Captain Dickhead's here."

Harvey throws a thumb toward Louis, who is mid-way through a graceful body roll. "You calling this a party?"

"Pizza. Booze. Entertainment." Mikes shrugs and sips his beer, his attention never leaving Louis' bizarre performance. "Honestly, I think we all needed this. For morale, you know? Those DoJ cases have us biting each—"Mike's face falls in awe. "Seriously, _how_ is he even doing that? He has to be dislocating something. That's incredible."

"You should see him do _She Wolf_ ," Donna voice composedly calls from the kitchen.

Harvey is flooded with relief. All around him the room brightens as if someone has turned the dial up on dimmer switch. He goes to her, giving Mike a cursory shoulder squeeze on his way. "Good, let's keep up the morale," he says. The kid watches him go by with parted lips. Horrified by the affectionate touch.

In the kitchen Donna is pouring tortilla chips into a bowl. She is still dressed for work, looking presidential compared to her casual party-goers. The dress she has on fits her form so flawlessly Harvey is distracted for a moment by the pronounced curves of her trim figure. He wants to unwrap her. See what she's made of. An unwelcome desire seeps into his blood stream, pools down to his groin. He is a thief, stealing intimate glances because he can't afford the real thing. It makes him feel dirty and shamefully inappropriate, almost like he's getting off on his sister.

He forces his attention to her as a whole, blames his lust on the fact that he hasn't had one out in a while. Should have had that girl last night, now he's all pent up. Frustrated. Thinking about the constellation of freckles across her naked skin.

Sensing his gaze, Donna peers up. Her normally bright eyes are dark and unreadable, giving her this pale, weary appearance that starkly contrasts her usual fiery vibrancy. It's like Donna's soul has been sucked out and what's left is something severe and alien.

Harvey becomes hyperaware of his own appearance: wet from the rain, windblown, maybe even smelling of dog. He tries not to look guilty of the fact that half an hour ago he was standing in a kitchen disturbingly similar to the one he's in now, chatting with her ex-husband, and he thinks the effort only makes him look more guilty. He feels naked in front of her, stripped down to his insides. He imagines she's seeing parts of him he doesn't even know about. It's not fair. He is a glass display and she's an elusive black hole. _And what is that face?_ Is she sad? Mad? Disgusted? Indifferent? He doesn't know. He can't read her. And he doesn't understand how—after all this time—he can still be so clueless.

She advances toward him on bare feet, four inches shorter than he's used to. Less empowering and oddly vulnerable, this should boost his confidence but those harsh eyes make him anxious.

She reaches out, touches his lapel. "You ever heard of an umbrella?" She asks. Her words are playful. Her tone isn't. She is suspicious, pinning him up for inspection: _Where have you been?_

He throws dry banter back at her: "I figured this suit could use a good wash." It's like he's reading from a script but the emotions don't match the scene. He'd like to tell her it's none of her damn business where he's been.

She hums and steps closer to him. They have an unspoken boundary and she is boldly pushing at it. He tries not to breathe her in, knowing the scent of her hair and her skin will bring to the surface the memories he spends too much of his energy repressing. His mind tells him to step away. His instinct tells him to step closer. Psychologically he's a teeter-totter but physically he is unaffected. "Wash wasn't that good," she whispers. "You still have dog hair on your trousers."

 _Shit._

She stares him down. Waits for an explanation, but he doesn't offer one. An expression crosses her face—disappointment?—and then she's stepping away, turning around, walking off. He doesn't know what else to do but follow her.

She leads him out of the kitchen, down the hall and through the open doorway of her bedroom. Having come this way once a decade ago he gets the odd sense of Déjà vu mixed with a poignant twinge of nostalgia. The repressed memories don't just surface, they boil over.

II

 _They lay beside each other, sprawled out in an after sex slackness, perspiration clinging to their naked skin. The half-moon indent of her nails still show their bite marks into his bicep. Her pale body glows under the city lights, too pure, too perfect. She looks like a photograph and he knows this image of her will never leave his head. He will take this to his grave._

" _Is your mom a musician too?" she asks. Her voice has taken on a sexy rasp from its earlier exertion._

 _Normally the invasiveness of this question would piss him off (the subject of his mother is off-limits, she knows this), but he's already lying bare beside her. He answers her willingly—maybe even eagerly. Pillow talk. He gets it now. "A painter. Why do you ask?"_

" _I'm just curious to know how the son of couple of artists ends up as a Manhattan attorney."_

 _He lifts himself onto his elbow and smiles down at her through the darkness. "I thought you knew everything."_

 _She turns to face him. "I might have it worked out."_

" _Let's hear it."_

" _Well, artists are known for being abstracted, living inside their imaginations, detached from the real world…maybe even a little naïve. Someone in your family had to be the grounded one. The realist that holds on to the responsibility while everyone else gets to live with their head in the clouds. I know that's not Marcus because every time he calls he's telling me about some new wild venture he's on. So that leaves you."_

 _Suddenly he sees himself at fifteen, watching his parents fight because the IRS hit them with a penalty for a missing self-employment schedule. He sees his brother acting up because they couldn't afford the trainers he wanted for his birthday that year. He sees his family fall apart, blaming each other rather than an overly complicated system that treated them unjustly. He sees himself researching tax law for months, finding a clause he could manipulate, writing a letter of appeal. He sees the refund check in the mail, hears his dad ask incredulously "How?" He tells him, it was easy. But it wasn't easy, just necessary…_

Someone in the family had to be the grounded one _._

" _I never thought of it like that," he admits._

" _It makes me sad." She scoots closer to him, places her hand on his chest. His heart leaps, like it's trying to press itself against his ribcage to make contact with her fingertips. It flutters, beating out to her in Morse code:_ Take me, I belong to you. _"I feel like there is a part of you that wants to be reckless and irresponsible. That wants to escape all of this and get lost, but you've been conditioned to keep your feet set so firmly to the ground with all of your goals and ambitions. I hope you don't get bitter. This city is a grim place to be stuck on the ground in—that stench of piss constantly oozing from the sidewalk, all this pollution and litter. You can't even see the sky properly at night. When is the last time you've seen a star? Or the moon for that matter."_

" _Do you always get this deep and philosophical after sex?"_

" _I don't know. Maybe." She kisses his shoulder absently. The freeness of her gesture allows him to let loose some of his restraint. He reaches over, cups the side of her face, trails his thumb lightly across her cheekbone. He wants to tell her she's beautiful, but he feels like this would be too forward. Instead he leans in to kiss her, but before he can get close enough to close the gap she's whispering against his lips: "I'll worry about you now that we're not working together. I know you're destined for greatness, but will you be happy?"_

 _He pulls back, searches her eyes. "You don't think greatness will make me happy?"_

" _You're the son of artists, Harvey. You're sensitive deep down in there and you're going to need something more substantial than your name on some door."_

" _So what are you saying? I should give up being an attorney? Go paint my body in mud and interpretive dance to Congolese music?"_

 _She grins at the image. "Is that what you want?"_

" _No. I want to be managing partner of my own firm. I don't want my name on some door; I want my name on the wall."_

" _Fine. But I still think you should do some soul searching now that you're done with the DA. You know, that whole Eat, Pray, Love thing. Have a foursome. Get a tan. Go to Botswana and meet the king. Stuff like that."_

" _Botswana has been a republic since the sixties," he corrects. "They have president now."_

" _Do they? Good for them."_

 _She brings her lips to his, offering him just a touch and he knows she wants more by the way she lingers, eyes half-open. He runs his hand through her hair, grips the back of her neck and tugs her into him. They crash together, open mouthed, tongues meeting fiercely, breaths catching on their desire._

 _He pulls her on top of him. She breaks the kiss and sits up, straddling his lap, and he lets his gaze wander down the entirety of her fair lithe body, taking in the sex-ruffled waves of her copper hair, the pale hollow of her throat, the delicate protrusion of her collarbone, the perfect slopes of her breasts. He feels greedy. Half-crazed. He can't get enough of her and this scares him. He was so sure the anticipation would be sweeter than the real thing._ Isn't that what they always say? _Stupidly he went all in, dove into her bed sheets, dove into her, and now the odds are stacking up against him and he's losing it._

" _Can I tell you a secret," he asks._

 _She stares down at him, hands splayed against his chest for leverage; she rolls her hips toward him, gliding her warm wetness up his length. She is as greedy as he is. "You can tell me anything."_

" _I settled for being an attorney." He takes her by the hard curves of her hipbones, helping her along. She lets out a moan that sinks into his skin and surges through his nerve-endings._ Fuck _, how can he already need her again? "I really wanted to be a fighter pilot like in Top Gun."_

 _Her dark eyes flicker. She plants herself above him on all fours, face to face, red hair spilling around them like a curtain. He is intoxicated by the smell of her: coconut and lilacs and her sex and his sex mixed together. "We should role-play that."_

 _He tries not to sound too enthusiastic. "You would do that?"_

" _Of course. But I should warn you. I take my role-playing very seriously. I can be in character for days."_

 _He is watching her lips move as she talks, thinking about kissing her after each syllable, thinking she's the most gorgeous thing he's ever seen, thinking certainly he's breaking some kind of natural law of the universe with how quickly he's falling for her. "I'll be Maverick," he says._

" _Does that make me Goose?"_

" _No, I couldn't ruin the sanctity of their platonic bromance."_

" _Ice man?"_

" _Nah."_

" _Charlie?"_

 _He runs his hands down her spine, grips her ass. He tries to push her back down on him, but she's defiant. He's not her boss anymore. Does this make her his boss now? "I want you to be my fighter jet."_

 _She smiles down at him wickedly. "_ Oh, baby _. That's kinky."_

 _He brings a hand back to her neck and coaxes her forward. Their foreheads touch; he kisses her deep, tasting lips, mouth, tongue. "C'mon, then," he whispers, "Give me some sexy airplane noises."_

" _I can't, Mav. My engines have to be turned on."_

" _Where's the ignition?"_

" _I'm not going to recite my damn instruction manual." She pushes her breasts up toward his face. "Fiddle my knobs and find out."_

 _His breath catches at the command. "God, Donna."_

" _Who's Donna? I'm an F-14."_

 _They both laugh quietly into the darkness and Iloveyou almost falls out of his mouth, but he swallows it back. Nearly chokes on it. She notices. Her expression changes into something more serious, like she's trying to read him and he panics. He grabs her more firmly, this time pulling her upward while sliding himself down so that his face rest centered below her spread legs. He looks up at her over the curve of her cunt, through the swell of her breasts. Her eyes dilate with desire, big black orbs that stare down at him intensely. That crack in his armor is all but forgotten._

 _She says, "Going straight for the accelerator, I see."_

" _You know me. I don't mess around." He pulls her hips down and kisses her gently. She breathes in sharp, whispering his name with a pang of urgency. He thinks,_ I can be in character for days my ass, _and_ _nuzzles his face into her cunt, slipping his tongue along her wet seam. Her taste and smell remind him of the sea. Her pussy is the French Polynesia, her hips rock with the waves of Bora Bora waters crashing against the shores of his tongue._

 _She moans_ _and falls forward, one hand gripping the sheets, the other tugging at his hair. He licks and sucks and she grinds against his face until she's shuddering into an orgasm, crying out to him and god, making them one, linking it with every filthy word he's ever heard. His dick throbs._

 _He gives her no time to recover. Grabbing her by the hips, he pushes her down on him until he fills her up. She feels abnormally tight, like he's sinking his dick into a warm wet vise. She is squeezing him from the inside, riding him, pouring out months and months of repressed lust. Her appetite is alarming. He wants so badly to be able to appease her but he doesn't think he can last long enough to send her over the edge again._

 _He forces her still, his hips kissing hers, trying to regain himself. She slinks her way up his chest, lips slightly parted, hair a mess, eyes wild—a sexy little predator out to fuck him to death. He can't help but grin, hugely, like he's five years old and its Christmas morning. She says, "Fuck me," and rakes her hand through his hair, pulling at it a little bit like she needs his undivided attention. He moves inside of her again, slow and teasing. She continues on, her breath hot against his lips: "Tear me apart. Hollow me out until all that's inside of me is you. You, with your sweet sweet artist soul, paint my insides. I'm your Sistine chapel, Harvey, carve your name all over my walls."_

 _He loses it entirely. He wraps his arms around her and slams himself deep into that maddening heat. She moans, nails digging in his chest and her voice falls soft and seductive in his ear, urging him on._

 _His entire body spasms and he cums so hard he feels like he's gone blind from the rush. He's whispering her name, over and over again. Donna. For every stolen glance. For every eager dream. For every clandestine smile. Donna. Donna. Donna. He thinks she's broken him until he feels her lips against his, gentle and unhurried, and the distraction shuts him up._

 _She starts laughing against his mouth, a beautiful, infectious laugh. He joins in. Pulling away, she says, "How the hell did I go from being a fighter jet to your Sistine chapel all in one sex session?"_

" _Carve your name all over my walls," he parrots, grinning. "Paint my insides—god, you're filthy."_

" _You loved it. I saw your eyes roll back into your head. I thought you were having a seizure for a minute."_

" _Definitely convulsing. You should come with a warning label."_

 _Day is breaking. The silhouettes of her bedroom gain color and intricacies. For the first time tonight they've fallen silent, clinging to each other, already in a state of mourning. This is their end. The fork in the road where he goes one way and she goes another. He has ended relationships before—many, he's good at it—but this time it feels like he's cutting himself in half and leaving behind the very best parts of him._

 _He finds himself thinking about what she said earlier, about how there is a part of him that wants to be reckless and irresponsible, that wants to get lost, and he entertains the idea of leaving this concrete path he's laid out for himself and forging a new one with her beside him. He pictures himself stumbling out, hand-in-hand, with this capable, fiery redhead into some unknown. A foursome in Botswana (for her satisfaction; he'll even meet the president), then traveling east, sinking their feet into the sand of the Maldives before it disappears under the ocean. He'll get a tan. She'll try not to burn. He'll give up his suits for swim shorts and grow out his facial hair. Maybe learn to surf. She'll lay out on the beach in a big straw hat and sundress, no panties underneath, watching him face-plant into the waves until she gets tired of it and dives in to show him how it's done. He won't get his name on any doors or walls, but he'll have it attached to her. She'll be the Mrs to his Mr, and maybe that will be enough. They won't buy a house, they'll build one together. He'll get her flowers of every kind: roses, chrysanthemums, tulips, lilacs and not just on special occasions, but because she makes his heart race. He'll fly with her, head in the clouds, faded. He'll be Maverick and she'll be—not his wingman—but his wings. He's got the soul of an artist and she is his canvas and he'll tear the world apart to paint her perfect. And when dawn comes, she will still be in his arms because they have melded together to the point where he doesn't know where she ends and he begins and they are endless._

 _He wants to confess it all to her. To spill every secret he's ever had. He wants to turn himself inside out, upside down. He wants to tell her that he loves her, loves her in a way he's never loved anyone else, but he's too much of a coward and if he's honest, she deserves better than him anyway._

 _Saying their goodbyes, she doesn't ask him to call or keep in touch. Not even a 'see you around'. She is standing in the doorway with him, cup of coffee in one hand and a sheet wrapped around her like a little Roman senator, smiling when she says, "I would say good luck out there, but you don't need it."_

" _You're right," he says, trying to smile as easily as she does. "I don't."_

" _I'll keep an eye out for you in the paper." She seems to rethink this. "Although as a corporate lawyer, I doubt you'll end up there all that much."_

" _I'll find a way."_ Just for you. _"And I'll keep an eye on Broadway. I heard Anna Karenina is casting."_

" _Ooh, I'd love to throw myself in front of a train."_

" _Don't spoil it for me."_

" _You've never seen it?"_

" _I'm not really a fan theater, but I'd watch it if you were in it."_

" _That's really sweet of you. I'd love to look down and see you snoring in the front row."_

" _Nothing closer than second, I'll need a footrest."_

" _Stop it, Harvey, you're making me swoon."_

 _They share a smile, and he sees the goodbye start to come up to her lips and he feels a little like he's going to falling apart so he says quickly, "Let's not make a big show of it."_

 _Donna gives him a small shrug that seems to say "As you wish," and that's enough for him to turn and walk away, leaving that little redheaded Roman peering at his retreating figure with a quirked eyebrow, curious but unhurt. It bothers him, the ease at which she lets him leave and he thinks for the first time that maybe they are feeling things differently. Maybe she looks like she feels nothing because she actually feels nothing; it's logical, but he tries not to dwell. It's not like it matters._

 _Stepping out into the busy streets of Manhattan, Harvey already feels like less of himself. Ever since she entered his life his whole purpose has come into focus, like his future was a vague idea but having her beside him has helped solidified it. She has been his constant support, driving him forward, unafraid to challenge him when he strays. He feels terrified that he can't do this on his own, that he needs her too much, and he wishes for a place where he is made in a way that will let him and her fit together. A place where he doesn't have to choose between loving her and leaving her and then he realize—in what feels like an earth shattering epiphany—that they already had that place. The DA. It was just the right amount of closeness and separateness that he was content._

 _He could keep her. Hit rewind. Go back to being boss and secretary. The perfect relationship in Harvey's mind: close, but not close enough for things to get complicated. No one gets hurt. Symbiotic. Win-win. He'll look at her as a functional unit, take her out of his wank-bank, avoid iliac and coconuts and whipped cream and clean lines; he'll never visit the French Polynesia again, or the Sistine chapel for that matter. Probably won't watch Top Gun for a while._

 _He'll keep her within arm's reach but at arm's length, loving her as a secret, always at the tip of his tongue._

III

Whatever he expects when Donna flicks the light on, it's not the same. The bed is in a different position, beside the window rather than beneath it. The dresser they used illicitly for the convenience of its height is gone, replaced by a silver-threaded chair. The earthly tones are now monochromatic grays. That night may as well have happened centuries ago. Everything has changed since then, especially them. They are not those people anymore. The memories in his head, they happened in someone else's lifetime, and all Harvey can think is: _how did we go from there to here?_

The bedroom door clicks shut. They stand together in silence, him and her and the ghosts of their former selves—overlapping, blending, blurring; he's seeing her with double vision. Seeing an alternative of what they could've, would've, should've been.

And now here they are.

Donna color heightens. Her eyes are smoldering. She lays into him fiercely: "You went to see Jonathan."

He nods. No point in denying it. "Despite that 'friendly gesture'bullshit you tried to spin this morning I know when I'm being threatened."

"That wasn't a threat, Harvey, that was bait and you latched right on to it."

"What else was I supposed to do? I'm not going to back down. He went to Mike's _home_ ," he says. "Where he lives with _Rachel_."

She shakes her head, squeezes her eyes shut for a moment. When she regains herself, her voice comes out soft but firm. "This isn't just some case. This is my _life_. That's my ex-husband. A man I haven't seen or spoken to in more than a decade and now you're taking _meetings_ with him behind my back. How do you think that makes me feel?"

 _God_ , he's nearly giddy with rage. How dare she try to turn this around and act as if she's the victim here. She wounded _him_ —wounded _them._ His voice escalates, turns harsh. "I don't care how it makes you feel, and honestly, Donna, I don't have to tell you shit. You lost that right by keeping all of this from me for thirteen fucking years."

Her breath catches. She gives him a long, painful look. He tells himself she deserves this but wonders why his heart kind of feels like it's shattering. Didn't he come here to fix this? Why is he making it worse?

"You don't think I wanted to tell you?" she says. "This has sat so big and so constant on my mind for years. It was just never a good time."

"So you let me find out like _this_. With this whole fucking thing collapsing down on me the _week_ I become managing partner. Do you even realize what this is doing to me? I can't think about anything else. None of this makes any goddamn sense and you still haven't even mentioned Alice—"

He regrets it as soon as it leaves his mouth. The single word "Alice" hangs between them. Like the name has been hidden away for so long it comes out with a perceptible dust that lingers in the air.

Donna goes rigid. Something inside her shifts, a reflex to whatever pain he's stimulated by bringing up her little girl. He sees that steel door Jonathan spoke of start to swing shut and he wonders if he has enough time to wedge himself through. When she finally speaks her voice is calm, reasonable, and completely disconnected. "What is there to say? I had a daughter. She died. The subject is pretty limited."

"Really, Donna?"

"What the hell do you want out of me? Should I fall over and start sobbing, screaming god why oh why has this happened to me? I have mourned, Harvey. I promise you I have cried enough tears for two lifetimes, so don't you worry about the state of my emotions because they are there. I am sad to my _core._ "

Her admission breaks him. He feels his edges fraying. He wants to drop to his knees and beg her, _please, just let me in_. _Let me take some of your hurt and make it my own. I have room._ "I'm not questioning how you handle your grief. I'm questioning why you kept this from me."

"Because I'm not actually sure you cared enough to want to know," she confesses, her voice rising up to meet his, a mix of anger and frustration and maybe a dash of pain. "I mean, it's not like I went out of my way to avidly hide any of this. And it shouldn't come as a surprise to you that I had a life before you. I am a person, you know. I inhale. I exhale. My heart fucking beats. It's like you want to believe that I fell from the clouds, a gift from god to serve you and your needs, and outside of that I'm a blank slate. White noise."

Harvey shakes his head, baffled, wondering if she actually believes the bullshit she's throwing at him. "Just last night you accused me of being in love with you," he points out. "And now suddenly I don't care enough about you to see you as a person? Which is it, Donna?"

"Both. You can love someone for everything they give you and not care for who they are beyond that. It's called being selfish."

"So this is all my fault then?"

"No, Harvey. In an ideal world, no one should be at fault. I'm your secretary; I'm allowed to keep my personal life private and you are under no obligation to want to know me."

"Donna, our relationship is more than just professional and you know that."

"There you go again, saying this is more, but what does that _mean_?"

He glares at her, clenches his jaw. "You don't think I realize what you're doing here? You want me to back down by bringing up a conversation you think I'll run away from. But I'm not going anywhere until I get some goddamn answers."

Donna lets out something between a scoff and a sardonic laugh. "Harvey, if I wanted to send you running I wouldn't even have to open my mouth. You cower if I step too close."

Not wanting to respond to this, Harvey changes course, "How the hell has this conversation become about me when you're the one with all the secrets?"

"What do you want from me?" She throws up her hands, lets them fall, shakes her head. "Do you want me to kneel before you in confession and pour out my deepest and darkest—rip my soul from my body so you can finally _see me_. Because I'm warning you, I'm not the _Donna_ you think I am. There is nothing awesome about the wreckage inside of me. It's ugly in here—I am angry and resentful, ashamed and guilty. My heart _aches_ all the time. You want answers? Well so do I. I would love to know when it will all stop hurting or what I did wrong or why I had to lose everything I ever fucking had." Her voice breaks. She inhales uneasily, shaken, and Harvey stares, frozen, traumatized, watching her as she crumbles, afraid to even breathe as if his exhale might be what collapses her. "I failed at a whole life, Harvey. Is this what you want to hear?"

He didn't want to hear any of this, he realizes, and he definitely doesn't want to hear anymore. He's in over his head, charging in here, demanding answers and explanations that he can't stomach and not because he doesn't care but because he cares too much. Seeing her weak scares the shit out of him. She is his pillar, his foundation. If she goes down, he goes down with her.

"Donna, I…" And he doesn't know what to say. That it's not fair that this has happened to her. That he hates it. That if he could soothe her mind and take it all for himself, he would do it in a heartbeat. It won't be enough. He can't say what he should to her. He can't find the words to fix this, to make it all better, and it kills him.

And his time is up. Someone is knocking at the bedroom door. Mike, muffled: "You guys know we can hear you shouting at each other."

Donna shakes her head, wipes a tear from her eye and gives Harvey a heartbreaking stare, disappointed but unsurprised. He's failed her.

She goes to the door, but before she opens it, she says without looking at him, "I'm sorry I did this to us."

He would have rather she called him a coward, told him she hated him, because the selflessness of her apology just makes him ashamed.

 **A/N: Thank you to everyone still reading and reviewing! And an extra big thanks to the people who PMed and tweeted me to update. I needed the boost to get this thing finished. I was (and still am) on the fence with this update, but I've been sitting on it for so long, I've just decided to go with it. Looking forward to everyone's thoughts!**


	9. Crime Scene

**Trigger warning: Act I might be hard to read for anyone dealing with grief. Please be advised.**

I

 _It's 4 am. The neon green of the heart monitor glows in the low light of the ICU and Donna watches the numbers with bated breath, willing them to stabilize. She is lying in the hospital bed with Alice curled up in her arms, tubes and wires tangled around them like awkward extra limbs and yet that little body still fits itself seamlessly against hers, a unification she imagines only a mother and her child can achieve. It's as if there was a nook carved out of her the day Alice was born that she clicks right into. A beautiful extension of herself, cut into her center, stuffed with every good feeling she's ever known._

 _Alice's breath stirs the stillness between their bodies. It comes out hot against Donna's neck following the timed interval of the ventilator; the smell of it is caustic, almost like the acetone in nail polish remover, something so chemical it seems incompatible with life—_

 _Donna tries not to think about this._

 _Like she tries not to think about the frailness of the tiny body in her arms, or how the heart beating alongside hers is pumping at an unsustainable triple speed, or that her baby's beautiful porcelain skin has taken on a horrifying yellow tinge. She remains focused with practiced apathy on those neon green numbers, even when the tears filling up her eyes begin to blur them illegible, she won't let them spill. She vows to hold on to her composure until the very end, giving Alice something solid to cling to. No matter how soul shattering this situation gets, she won't break while her daughter still breathes._

 _At some point in this predawn hour fingertips reach out and sweep aside Donna's hair, soft lips press against her temple. "You should be sleeping," he tells her._

 _She shuts her eyes, her husband's voice sending waves of relief through her, loosening up some of the aching twists in her gut. She reaches for the hand combing through her hair and holds it against her cheek with a desperate grip, afraid he might slip away from her again. "Where have you been?" She whispers._

" _Do you really want to know?"_

 _She opens her eyes and looks into Jonathan's gray irises. Cold like the winter sea. Those waves of relief begin to swell, a rising tide crashing against her a little too hard. Her knotted guts are no longer kinked but sinking. She can almost taste the salt._

" _It doesn't matter," she says, relenting where once she would have demanded answers. Now, it seems, there's too much weight pressing down on her to worry over his absence._

" _Has she been awake?"_

" _Off and on." Donna runs her fingers through the little girl's sun-bleached red hair, trying to work out the bedhead tangles, cherishing the way the long wispy strands still feel baby-fine. "She's been a little disoriented. Talking in circles, something about a baseball and a man named Todd— Do we know a Todd?"_

 _Jonathan shrugs, less because he doesn't know and more because he can't be bothered. "She's off her Harvey-kick, then?"_

" _No, she goes on about him too." Donna smiles to herself, pulling forward that forever ingrained image of Alice's enamored face as she stared out at the attorney—over eager smile, awe in her eyes—like Harvey's presence gave her a boost of vitality. It hits her then that his visit may end up being the last time Alice is truly conscious and that upward tilt of her lips collapses back to baseline. "He came to see her yesterday."_

" _That's suspiciously kind of him," Jonathan says mildly._

" _He was good with her."_

" _Don't tell me you're in love with him too."_

" _I might be." Her words are a tease, but her voice is so flat it comes out like an unintended threat:_ you're not around, so why not?

 _Jonathan remains impassive. She could have told him she had sex with the man fifteen different ways and his expression would show nothing more than a vaguely curious crease between the brows. She used to find this enduring. She could read everyone, but never him. His emotions were always an enigma; she'd spend days, weeks, months, trying to solve him, memorizing the slight shift of his features as if they meant something. Now, after years of being married to the man she realizes there's no mystery here, he looks unfeeling because he is unfeeling._

 _It's times like this she thinks her mother was right with all her crazy astrology talk and some people really are inherently incompatible with each other. She warned Donna relentlessly that Johnny was too aggressive and cold, herself, too trusting and compassionate. They'd clash. His detachment and negativity would ware at her but her loyalty would keep her grasping at the pieces, at ashes. She'd call herself a martyr, but deep down it won't be willingness that holds her to him but conditioned desperation. A bird who, when let loose, flies straight to its cage._

 _Of course, Donna didn't listen. In fact, she had rolled her eyes, thinking it absurd that the star alignment in the sky could dictate who she is, that she could be shoved into a box filled with pre-determined character traits, never able to spill out of it. She wonders now if she were to look up her horoscope, if stubborn to a fault would be in among her list of attributes._ Poor mom _, she thinks._ Poor mothers. Only wanting what's best and hardly getting what they wish for.

 _Donna and Jonathan step out of the ICU together and into the fluorescent hallway. She keeps hold of his hand in an unromantic way, a tether more than an embrace, and leads him passed the nurse's station and into a quiet alcove where the coffee dispensers are kept._

 _Jonathan is the first to break the silence. "She's yellow."_

" _What?"_

" _Alice. Her skin."_

 _Donna, having sensed he'd start here, drops his hand, grabs a Styrofoam cup and pours herself a coffee. "Yes. She's yellow."_

" _Care to explain?"_

" _Her liver's failing."_

" _Her liver's failing," he repeats, needing to hear it in his own voice to make sense of it. "I thought it was her kidneys?"_

" _That was yesterday."_

" _Dee—"_

" _Johnny, she's dying. If you want specifics, go find her nurse. I shouldn't have to fill you in."_

 _He steps closer to her, a tall severe man, hard-muscled and hard edges, who has to pour his own coffee now because Donna has forgotten to think of his needs. She's certain he sees this as an angry gesture—normally it would be habitual for her to grab two cups—but that wasn't her intention and this sort of scares her. She sees this as another crack in their marriage, this growing neglect toward her wifely duties._

" _You act like you're in this alone," he says, offering her the plastic pitcher labeled 'Milk'. He won't pour for her, he's always either too much or not enough. Eight years and he still can't find the balance._

" _Maybe because I am," she replies. "You're not here, are you?"_

" _I am now."_

" _For how long?"_

 _He takes her hand back into his and she thinks for all his hardness he has such soft palms. "For as long as you need me, Dee."_

 _His words make her heart ache because she wants so badly for him to mean them. "I need you always," she tells him plainly, holding his gaze. "I know it's not easy having to sit here and watch her suffer, but the fact that you've left me in this alone is making me resent you." Her words bite, maybe a little too harsh, and because she loves him—out of habit mostly, leftovers of the real thing—she feels the need to protect him. She elaborates, throws in a damping layer, "I don't want to be angry at you, Johnny because I understand why you've turned your back. You get to spare yourself from all the worst parts of this and maybe you'll get to scrape by without getting completely destroyed, but I'm telling you right now, I can't keep this up. I can love her for two and I sure as hell have enough hurt inside me for two, but I don't have the strength of two."_

 _Jonathan's hand moves to her wrist, shackling her. The tightness of his firm, smooth fingers makes her bones feel like chalk._ Strength of two? _His grip seems to say,_ You don't even have strength enough for one. _"Have you signed the DNR?" he asks._

 _The question comes out of nowhere. Donna's put off guard. "Why are you—"_

" _Yes or no."_

" _Jonathan—"_

" _Yes or no, Donna."_

" _No."_

 _He nods slowly as if this was the answer he had been expecting. "I'll stay, but we're signing the DNR and we're withdrawing life-support. I've let you make the decisions—"_

" _You've_ let _me?" Donna interrupts, shocked by the shear fucking nerve of him, disgusted by his conditions. "You turned your back the moment she was diagnosed."_

" _No, I turned my back the moment I realized the numbers didn't add up, that her 5 year survival rate was fucking zero. We were never going to save her. I told you I didn't want to put her through chemo, but you wouldn't listen."_

" _And look how many years we got because of my decision," she argues, her voice taking on a tone and pitch that draws nearby stares._

" _Yeah, Dee, years. And how many surgeries? How many hospital visits? How many sick days? What sort of extension did we give her? She fucking suffered through the whole thing, and I'm the bad guy because I can't bear to be a part of it and you're the saint, holding her down while they cut her open."_

 _Donna steps back, suddenly weak kneed and breathless. Jonathan's grip constricts, pinning in her in place. "What are you trying to say?" she almost whispers._

" _I'm saying you have to stop being selfish and let her go while she still has some goddamn dignity left."_

" _Selfish…" Donna repeats, the single word leaving her lips slowly as if it's foreign and she can't quite get the pronunciation right. Has she been selfish? There was a line somewhere between saving her daughter's life and prolonging her death and they've crossed it, she knows this, but part of her still wants to believe there's a way back. Denial, Johnny would call it, and now that she thinks about it, maybe he's right. Maybe a large chunk of all this awfulness building up inside of her is guilt. Maybe she's put her daughter through too much, not because it's what Alice wants (had she thought to ask?), but because she can't bear the thought of losing her._

 _These thoughts wrap around Donna's neck like a noose—selfish, cruel, hypocritical—and Jonathan stand before her as if waiting for the chair to topple. Like he wants nothing more than to watch her hang._

 _Then, strangely, she finds herself thinking of Harvey Specter._ We don't give up, _he told Alice, and those deep blue eyes stared back at him, determined, her little fist clenched as she wiped away her tears._

 _We don't give up. We don't give up._

 _No, she hadn't asked Alice what she wanted, but that's because she already knew._

" _I'll sign the DNR," Donna says, surprised by her own firmness, "but we're not withdrawing life support while Alice still has some consciousness left in her. If you knew your daughter at all you'd know her dignity relies on the fact she fought this to very end."_

II

Donna emerges from behind the bedroom door, abnormally pale and fragile-looking, her eyes glittering from bruised hollows, large and dark and almost frightened as though she's somehow found herself lost inside of her own home. Mike fears she's about to pass out and reaches for her elbow. "You okay?" he asks.

Slowly Donna pulls away from his supportive grasp. The vigor returns to her eyes, a magic trick, a floodgate she opens full of reserved composure. "I'm fine, Mike," she says, with just enough firmness in her voice to keep him from pressing. He steps away, giving her room to breathe and her eyes slide to the open bedroom door, hesitate there, not expectant but regretful. When her gaze shifts back to his she says nothing, but the faint concern in her expression articulates enough: _he needs you_.

Mike nods his head in perfect understanding. "Are you sure—"

Something shatters in the dining room; someone gasps, a feminine sound, probably Louis. Donna shuts her eyes, looking so damn tired Mike feels the urge to reach for her again but before he can latch on she's swerving around him, obligated towards another mess, spreading herself too thin. He thinks if he listened close enough he might actually hear her bones creaking beneath the weight stacking up on her shoulders. He stands there looking silently after her, wanting to shout at her back, 'you don't have to hold us up,' but not daring because truthfully, maybe she does.

Mike finds Harvey standing at the center of Donna's bedroom, staring at floor as if willing it to open up and swallow him whole. "Morale was probably asking too much," Mike jokes. "We should've aimed for more of a gentle hostility. Baby steps, right?" He tries for a smile and gets ignored; then—maybe it's the look in Harvey's eyes—he becomes serious. "You have to give her time."

Harvey says nothing. His lips are set tight and he swallows in an overexerted way, like his sadness has taken the physical form of a golf ball sized lump in his throat. He looks both old and lost. It breaks Mike's heart to see him this way, like he's facing his hero's mortality, struck with the awareness that the world can break even the most solid people.

"She feels exposed and that's making her defensive. Coming at her demanding answers will only drive her away." Mike's recycling what he said to Rachel after Donna snapped at her this morning. It sounds forced, even to his own ears, but he can't think of what else to say. He knows what it's like to keep secrets, and he knows Donna will feed them one truth at a time and cling to the rest like stolen gold if they keep backing her into corners.

Harvey sits down at the edge of the bed, closes his eyes and absently runs a hand through his dark hair. "I let her down," he says. His hand falls limp into his lap and he looks over at Mike, agony in his brown eyes. "She needed me and I just stood there. Thousands of words in the English language and I couldn't put one fucking sentence together."

 _He brought up Alice,_ Mike realizes, recalling Donna's haunted look, those dazed doe eyes. He finds himself thinking of all the condolences he received when his parents died, a monotonous train of clichéd apologies that only ever seemed to remind him of his loss. It was Gram's firm presence that impacted him the most, sobbing in her arms as though it was his refuge, letting loose some of that heaviness in her understanding embrace. "She doesn't need words, Harvey."

"What else is there?"

"Seriously? Is your head so far up your ass you can't see any alternatives?"

Harvey frowns. He says weakly, "What are you getting at, Mike?"

"I'm getting at the fact that you act like there's a mountain range standing between the two of you. But there's not, Harvey. There just isn't. It's a couple of feet and you being too much of a coward to face how you feel about her." The words tumble out of Mike's lips with unwarranted frustration and savage curiosity. They fill the empty space between them, push like the wind.

Harvey stares Mike down with an almost tangible aggression, like he's attempting to force the words back down his traitor throat. "You think I don't know how I feel about her?" Harvey stands up, anger reviving his solidity, shaping him back into that imposing force Mike recognizes. "Mount Everest could stand between us and I'd take it down rock by fucking rock to stand beside her. This isn't denial, Mike. This is a woman who has been by my side for years, putting up with my endless trivial bullshit all the while dragging this dead horse of a life, this fucking heavy heart, and I've been too much of an oblivious self-centered asshole to see her strain. The problem isn't how I _feel_. It's who I am."

For a moment Mike is certain Harvey is going to lose it. He has to look away. Let the man be. He wants to tell him that it's not his fault, that maybe Donna attached herself to him _because_ he is oblivious and self-centered. He never saw that dead horse or heavy heart but only her capability and surely she must have been grateful for that.

Mike chances a glance back and sees Harvey has it together again. "All I know is that you've got to stop fighting with her," he says. "Your relationship has taken a huge hit and the more you two clash the further you'll drift apart."

Harvey takes a moment to process this. He's edgy now, paranoid— _drift apart?—_ Mike's struck a nerve. "I didn't come here to fight with her," he argues, lacking the confidence of an attorney and sounding more like a man on trial: _Yes, your honor. Yes, I did it. I did it and I'm so sorry, but you have to believe me I didn't mean to._ "I came here to try and work this out."

"I believe you."

"I have good intentions, but it's like…"

"They get lost in translation?"

"Something like that."

Mike nods. He digs into the pocket of his jeans for the bag he got off Coffee Cart Guy. He thought they'd be smoking in celebration—Harvey becoming Managing Partner, Mike, a bar official attorney—but circumstances change and now he thinks Harvey needs the high just to get passed Donna and out the door without one of them going nuclear.

"Gram used to tell me anger is a secondary emotion." Mike pulls a pre-rolled joint from the bag. Harvey hesitates long enough to give him a curious brow and then he's turning around, sliding open the glass door to Donna's balcony. The sound of heavy rainfall fills the room. A humid, almost tropical breeze brushes against Mike's skin and sticks like a film of sweat. "We feel angry because we want to cover up our vulnerabilities—humiliation, fear, rejection, whatever. Pick your poison. Maybe if you figure out how you're truly feeling you can speak to Donna with a clearer head and a better understanding of where to focus the conversation."

Harvey stubbornly dismisses the notion. "Like I said, I know how I feel."

"So you know you're in love with her?" Once it's out, Mike stands and waits for the explosion he's sure will follow. None comes.

Instead, Harvey says, in good humor, "You act like there's the option of not knowing."

Mike wonders if this means what it seems. He rakes his brain, trying to think of a delicate way to probe. He gives up. "Well, you sort of have the emotional awareness of a five year old."

"My therapist estimates six-and-a-half."

Mike hands the joint to Harvey, honoring him with the first hit. "Does she know you refuse to eat if Donna isn't around to cut your food up for you? Because if so, I might have to check this woman's credentials."

"Probably a good idea. With the amount of inspirational quotes she spouts off I wouldn't be surprised if she got her degree from Hallmark."

"Ease off," Mike says, laughing. "That lady is putting herself on the frontline to peel off all those layers of asshole."

"You make me sound like I'm an iguana. Peel off my skin and I'm a new man. That's not how it works."

"You have to be receptive."

"I don't have to be shit," he mutters, slipping right back into his habitual bitterness.

Mike rolls his eyes, points at the joint in the older man's hand. "Light up, you miserable bastard."

III

At the center of Donna's kitchen, Rachel, Gretchen and Louis stand in a conspiratorial circle, panic in their eyes and drunkenness in their postures, arguing in heated whispers above a mess of broken glass and electric blue liquid. "What the hell," Donna says, walking in from the dining room.

Louis wastes no time shifting the blame. "Gretchen and her weak arthritic wrists is what the hell."

"Bullshit, you shimmied your ass straight into me."

"That wasn't a shimmy, Gretchen, that was sashay. A shimmy has more shoulders and less hips, I've explained this to you."

Gretchen tsks, mutters something Donna can't hear but she thinks she approves of it by the deeply offended look that cramps Louis' features.

Rachel, realizing she's third wheel in this fight, backs away from the group and settles her gaze on the redhead. The tenderness Donna sees in the young woman's brown eyes reminds her of melting chocolate, so soft they practically ooze sympathy. She just can't help herself. "You okay?" Rachel mouths.

For a moment Donna doesn't know how to react. _Am I okay?_ She wonders. There is an emotion inside of her that she can't quite catch the meaning of, something like pins and needles, somehow both painful and numb at the same time. Mostly, she thinks she's just tired. She feels like she's spent the past few days running around trying to collect bones from all the skeletons spilling out of her closet, desperately hiding them away before someone starts to fit the pieces together, matching radii to ulnas, building up her crime scene.

 _Crime scene._ That's what it's becoming. She thinks of Harvey and how he kicked aside those closet skeletons; his focus on the 206 bones buried inside of her: Donna Martell. It's like he shoved her face against a mirror and asked her to identify the body, ignoring her cries of denial— _I don't know her, I swear! I've never seen this woman in my life._ He pressed her until she broke, pleading guilty, until she all but fell to her knees in a confession so shameful it felt like profanity was spilling from her lips— _I was her mother and I couldn't save her. I was her mother and I couldn't save her. I was her mother and..._ God help her, if only she could unsee his eyes. If only she could take back the desperation written all over her face, unspill her tears. _God,_ if only she could blame him—for his silence, for his inaction, for the way his stare cut away from her so he didn't have to see her ache—but this is Harvey and if she's honest with herself he reacted just as she always expected he would.

Rachel's brows begin to come together in worry and Donna quickly flashes a masterful smile, small but reaching up into her eyes, reflecting wholeness and stability, feeling neither. Rachel doesn't buy it, at least not completely, but Donna's dark and tense posture tells her there can be no argument. Surrendering, Rachel turns her attention back to the pair arguing before her and says in the firm voice of a mediator, "Louis, I think you should just apologize to Gretchen for being clumsy and help us clean this mess up."

Louis smiles, thin lips drawing back from big white teeth. Horse teeth, Harvey calls them. Donna always thought of Bugs Bunny. "I'm sorry, Rachel, did I ask for your opinion?"

"I—"

"No, I didn't, because your super chic Sarah Burton wedding dress tells me you're too uncultured to have one."

Rachel goes wide-eyed. He might as well have reached across the kitchen and slapped her. "You take that back," she demands, stepping over glass to press a finger into his puffed out chest.

"I'd mud in a cat box before ruining my integrity by calling a spade anything other than a spade."

"You son-of-a-bitch—"

"Okay," Donna interrupts. "That's enough. This is my home and I won't have my friends disrespecting each other in it. We tear each other down enough at the firm and I think we deserve one night where we at least try to be decent human being to each other, and if you can't do that"—she gestures over her shoulder, eyes sliding over the three individuals in front of her—"you can get the hell out."

Rachel backs off, casting Donna an apologetic look. Gretchen resigns herself to the sink, looking irritated but in a disarming sort of way; she won't cause trouble. But Louis stands his ground. He turns toward Donna, a single finger raised in a demand for silence anticipation. They stare each other down. Donna tries to look intense and impatient, but secretly she digs his theatrics.

"Listen," he says, "I'll help clean up, but first, I have to know."

Louis catwalks across the kitchen, shoulders swaying back and forth alternatingly, hips far too focal. The redhead watches with unbiased appraisal.

"Definitely a shimmy," she concludes.

"Goddamn it."

IV

"Did you know Donna won an international award for her performance in _The Maids_?" Mike asks, exhaling a cloud of smoke with his words. It doesn't dissipate, but hangs, trapped behind a curtain of rain, surrounding the two men on the narrow balcony. "It came up in Rachel's research. One of the critics said when she performs— _un monde en feu_ —a world ablaze."

Harvey lifts a curious brow, gesturing with his fingers for Mike to pass the joint. "No shit?" he says, although he's not at all surprised. He's sat through a few of Donna's theater performances—far too few—and each time her stage presence had set his flesh sizzling, scorched a little of his soul, ignited an inferno of pride inside of him. He'd take her out to dinner afterwards and feel a bit star-struck. Say stupid things like 'the stage can't contain you,' and he thinks maybe she took this as a discouragement because she stopped inviting him to her shows. If he was a different person he would have told her what really meant, which is that she belongs in the spotlight, a worldly wonder, like Mecca, _Hajj_ , people should pilgrimage to her. It's not misunderstanding either—he knows what he's saying—he's just selfish; he wants to hoard her away, wants to look up from his desk and see Ophelia, talented enough to bring an auditorium to it's knees, radiant as the sun, locked up in her cubicle, answering his phones. " _Un monde en feu_ ," he repeats, smirking. "Suits her."

Mike nods distractedly, toeing the clay planter of succulents at his feet as if testing the pot's structural integrity. "I think you should tell her," he says.

"You want me to tell Donna she's a world on fire?"

"No." Mike glances at Harvey, his facial expression too serious for all the smoke they've inhaled. "I think you should tell her that you love her."

Harvey knew the kid was building up to this—probably had been for a while—and is more relieved than offended that he's brought it up. Best get it dealt with. Still, he lets Mike squirm in anticipation while he takes a long drag of the shared joint. The smoke burns his lungs, but he holds it down, lets it mesh. Finally he says, "She already knows."

"You've told her?"

"More or less."

"What does that mean?"

"That she knows." Harvey nudges his companion, offering him the cigarette. "Now drop it."

"Right, so, in other words you haven't told her. You just figure she knows because she's Donna…"

"More or less."

"What the _fuck_ does that _mean_?"

"It means stay the hell out of it," Harvey snaps, annoyed, but at the same time he's high enough to find the kid's frustration a little amusing. "Donna and I don't want to be together and telling her how I feel—whether I feel anything or not— isn't going to change that."

Mike makes a face, his brain assembling the half-truths Harvey's feeding him, trying to piece it all together into something that fits whatever fantasy he's trying to sell himself. "I think you're afraid," he says, and then nods at his own deduction, looking mildly surprised that he's reached a 'eureka,' like it was too easy, like the emotions of the man looming before him were supposed to be more of a puzzle. "You won't tell her because it might mean losing her if things go south and you don't want to take that risk."

Harvey finds himself wanting to shout at the kid, _what risk?_ Risk means there's potential to gain something. Risk is a two-sided coin and on one side there is an attainable relationship with her. But there is no risk because he's done the math; he's made a list of what he can give her and what she deserves and he falls short no matter which angle he looks at it. There is no risk when inadequate is written on his soul like law and he can't find a weak clause to work around. It's not _risk_ that he's up against, it's inevitability. He's run every possible scenario and the outcome is always the same: she leaves him.

He sees it on repeat, different versions of it, hundreds of them, playing inside his brain in high definition and surround sound, jolting him up in the middle of the night, breathless and coated in sweat. In some he sees her eyes when she tells him; in others, she can't even look at him. Sometimes she's crying, sometimes she's too angry for tears. Once in front of the entire office. Another in front of all of Manhattan. He's seen her older, fifty maybe, and they're living together but her suitcase is at the door because he's run out of things to offer. On the roof of PSL, about to jump down to her 'something more.' Her voice on his answering machine, too tired to continue. A resignation on his desk. A text message, just one sad line: _I can't do this anymore_. He sees her leaving him, no matter which path he chooses, she walks away again and again and again.

Fuck, if this was risk, he'd gamble his whole life away.

Harvey, tired of this, stares Mike down, warning him that what comes next is the end of the conversation: "I care about Donna, but beyond that, there's nothing to tell."

Mike holds his ground, meeting Harvey's severe stare with a near equal amount of force in his gaze. He tells Harvey angrily, "You think if you do nothing then nothing can change. But I've noticed a difference between the two of you since she's come back to your desk and I'm noticing an even bigger difference now. There's too much between you guys and if you don't sort it out soon you might need to face the possibility that you have something to lose even if you do nothing at all."

Harvey feels these words viscerally; they give way to tangled thoughts and a sinking feeling in his gut. He's brought back to last year, when Donna left him for Louis' desk and how even her hypothetical absence from his life spread like poison through his bloodstream. He felt it full body, as though they were conjoined and she ripped herself away, tore through the elasticity of his skin, through muscle and tendons, bent his bones to disentangle from him. It wasn't even an end, not really, she was just down the hall, he could see her if he shifted five steps to the right of his desk and craned his neck, and still he was sent into a downward spiral, operating at half capacity. He had to go to therapy just to learn how to breathe again. It's terrifying, how incomplete he is without her.

And Mike's not wrong. She came back to him but it's blatantly obvious that they're not the same. They're like a simulation of the old Harvey and Donna: programmed, empty, acting. It's like putting on an old dress shirt, telling yourself it still fits but your spilling out, ripping at the seams. There's too much context in their glances now and everything they say to each other comes out masking what they continually bite back, and he's afraid he'll let something slip again, so he says less and the silence fills with the 'I love you' he couldn't choke down anymore and her eyes beg him to elaborate and his are stuck in the mantra: _I can't I can't I can't_.

He can't. And he gets it, he's on borrowed time, and yes, he'll lose her of he does nothing, but doing any more just means there's more to lose.

 **A/N: Okay, so a few things: 1) I know this took me forever to write and it's not exactly worth the wait as far as interaction between Harvey and Donna, but this really lays the foundation for what's ahead in Part 3. 2) Someone voiced their confusion on the subject of why Harvey didn't recognize Donna if he's seen her before at the Hospital. My flashbacks are building up to Donna and Harvey's cannon meeting, so this will be answered eventually, but if anything plot wise seriously bugs you PM me and I'll be happy to elaborate (or fix if needed) 3) I know I say this every chapter but I really do appreciate the reviews and kind words and all those who continue to read. Thank you! :)**


	10. A Devil in Versace Pumps

**A/N:** Hi guys! I know its been a while, but hopefully the reveals in this chapter make up for that a bit. Kate McK very kindly offered to beta this chapter and I cannot thank her enough. She's done an excellent job at pointing out discrepancies and noting areas of confusion in the plot (which with such a complicated story, I really wish I would have used her sooner). Enjoy :)

I

 _For the first time in a very long time, Manhattan's district attorney, Cameron Dennis, feels nervous._

 _The phone call came late last night - a short 'we need to talk' and an address. He didn't think of it as odd at the time—Jonathan Martell is known for being vague—but now, standing in front of the grand Tribecan penthouse complex, sweating in his best suit, Cameron realizes the full weight of his current situation; he is outside the Martell family home, an invitation rare enough to be cause for concern._

 _The district attorney is buzzed in without having to ring the intercom. He straightens and re-straightens his tie in the private elevator, waiting for the lift to reach the top floor. His mind circles around what this visit might entail. The Russo case is taking longer than he initially expected. Jonathan seemed tolerant of the delays last month, but that was before Alice passed away. Grief may be pressing the man toward quicker retribution and when operating along the bounds of blurred lines quickness often leads to carelessness._

 _Cameron can't afford to be sloppy, but he also can't afford to piss Martell off. Jonathan is not the sort of white collar the district attorney is used to working with; he is ruthless, clever, and brutally efficient. He can't be bought or bargained with. He is the kind of criminal Cameron dreamed of taking down in his legal infancy, yet here he is, by the balls, taking house calls. Blackmailed into cowardice._

 _The elevator chimes and the doors slide open. Jonathan is waiting in the doorway of the penthouse, his face an unreadable mask. "Come in," he says, gesturing to be followed._

 _The loft is not what Cameron had envisioned. He pictured something practical and lifeless, a sterile operating suite, but what he's faced with is the comforting chaos of a family home. There is a large wall-sized chalkboard in the foyer covered in a multicolored mixture of handwritings: To Do lists and calendar notes, complex math equations, a child's drawings of dogs and rocket ships and smiling stick figures._

 _Further in, a Rangers backpack is hanging on a hook above a name plate that says "Alice" and stuck to the plate with an elephant sticker is a math test - 100%, good job, smiley face. It smells like something's baking—vanilla cake? Passing the kitchen he glimpses a retriever puppy, asleep in a shredded pile of newspaper._

 _Still, something is off about the place and in his effort to pin it Cameron almost trips over a pair of silver sequin Converse, scattered in such a way that tells him the wearer was in a rush to kick them off. He thinks of the little girl they belong to, dancing to Sweet Caroline on top of his ADA's desk, these same silver shoes tapping out each ba, ba, ba._

 _Jonathan notices Cameron's misstep. "I keep wanting to shout at her to come down and pick those damn things up," he says, stopping at the foot of the glass staircase to look back at the Chucks. "And then I remember."_

 _"I'm sorry," Cameron says reflexively, "I could move them…if it helps."_

 _"The wife's not in a good way. Something like that would set her off."_

 _Cameron nods as if he understands, but prays he never does._

 _They continue up to the second floor and it is the clicking of their oxfords against the glass steps that drives in what feels so odd. The house, almost alive with its vibrant homeliness, is too quiet, as if it has been put on mute, stuck in a moment of silence that never lets up._

 _The two men enter a large study. There is a desk at the center facing a dark leather couch, a book shelf at the rear, and all around a panoramic view of the South West corner. Sparkling beneath the mid-morning sun, the Hudson looks almost clean._

 _Jonathan flops down on the couch, spread eagle and slack. The posture is bizarre pared with his austere expression, somehow both threatening and unthreatening at the same time. He says, "Where are we with Russo?"_

" _I've drafted up a plea bargain. We can —"_

" _No."_

 _Cameron folds his arms across his chest. "You won't even read the terms?"_

" _Legal jargon bores me. Sum it up."_

" _A public apology and a 4.5 million dollar penalty."_

" _Funny, you state these terms as if I'm meant to be_ impressed _by them."_

 _Cameron has to fight to keep himself from glaring. "Russo isn't an easy man to go after."_

" _Here's a plea bargain, fifty years in prison or a bullet between the eyes. A or B. I'll let him pick."_

" _Seems a little unwarranted. He's CEO of a health insurance company, not a murderer."_

" _Is one less criminal than the other?" Jonathan's stare levels, goes cold. "He profited off my family's suffering. Kicked us poor dumb mutts while we were down. Murder would have been the kinder option, wouldn't you say?"_

 _Cameron lifts a curious brow. "It certainly would have been the smarter option. If you're going to kick a rabid pitbull you better make damn sure he doesn't get back up."_

" _Rabid?" Jonathan cocks his head. "Am I that bad-mannered?"_

" _I've heard rumors."_

" _I didn't take you as the closet gossip, Cameron."_

 _The district attorney smiles, more sneer than grin. "They say dear ol' dad couldn't keep a lid on you. Had to lock you up in Silver Hill as a boy."_

 _Jonathan narrows his eyes. It is the first true expression Cameron's seen out of the man. He can't help but press, "Adjustment disorder discharge—even Uncle Sam thinks you're batshit."_

 _Jonathan is up and across the room in two quick strides. He grabs Cameron by the shirt and shoves him back against the desk. The aggression comes out of nowhere and it's all the district attorney can manage to keep himself upright._

" _Tell me," Jonathan says conversationally, "are you suicidal or just stupid?"_

 _Cameron is trying to come up with an adequate response to diffuse the situation when he hears a woman's voice, calm and superior, break through the tension. "Jonathan." Those icy eyeballs slide away from Cameron and toward the approaching click of heels. "Play nice, sweetheart," she chides, "we're not barbaric."_

 _And the trap is let loose. Cameron's aggressor releases him and steps back, making room for a stunning redhead to fill the gap. She stands at nearly Cameron's height, dressed to the nines in a black cocktail dress. Her eyes are dark, French roast, staring into Cameron with godlike clarity as if she seeing through him, into his soul and out the other side, and she's not impressed._

" _You'll have to forgive my husband, Mr. Dennis," she says, reaching toward him, her gentle hand motherly in its absent need to adjust his skewed tie. "He's been strong for so long, sometimes I think he forgets how to be anything else."_

 _Cameron, entranced, can hardly speak. At her mercy. "Huh," he manages. "Here I was thinking that was just his abrasive personality."_

 _She inclines her head and smiles at him, albeit with some disdain. "You're a funny guy. Must be how you found yourself halfway into being strangled. Sadly, Johnny isn't easily amused. It's pulling teeth to get him to smile."_

" _My mistake," the district attorney says. "I'll have to remember that the next time I try for a joke."_

 _The redhead steps back and looks toward her husband expectantly._

 _Jonathan explains. "He wants to do a plea bargain."_

" _Oh?" Her gaze shifts back to Cameron. "And I'm sure it's been made clear to you that we have no interest in bargaining."_

" _I think Jonathan was in the middle of making that known when you showed up."_

" _I see," she says, still with that amused, slightly cold smile. "You have a different opinion, then?"_

 _In the hushed, closed door whispers that circle about the Martells, Cameron has heard nothing but mixed reviews regarding the wife. On one hand, she is the victim of a bad marriage, the mourning mother, locked up in her glass castle. On the other, she is the puppeteer, the 'man' behind the curtain, a devil in Versace pumps. Seeing her now, dark eyes pressing him for a response, he understands without a doubt._ She's the boss.

" _I don't have enough to build a solid case," Cameron tells her sincerely. "A plea bargain is the best I can do."_

 _There is a tense silence. Keeping her face carefully blank, Mrs. Martell gives nothing away. Cameron feels the need to elaborate, "I can't take a case to court on the tax payer's dime without a reasonable chance of conviction."_

 _The redhead nods and looks away, as if giving herself space in which to be disappointed. The window light falls softly against her profile, brightening her irises into a less intimidating shade of almost-green. The sun's rays strike her amber hair, setting it aflame. At her back Lower Manhattan looms, a captured thought floating above her head._

" _Alice was three when she got sick," she says at last. "The doctor thought it was Mono, but there was this strange lump on her lower left side. Probably a reactive lymph node, but he ordered an ultrasound anyway, for my peace of mind. The insurance company—I'm sure you can guess which—refused to authorize it. They said a relatively healthy 3-year-old doesn't need medical imaging. So they sent us home. Rest and plenty of fluids._ She'll be okay _." She pauses here, a far-off look in her eyes. Cameron imagines her hesitating on a 'what-if' she'll never have the answer to and feels deeply sad for her. When she resumes her voice is surprisingly curt and businesslike. "We got the ultrasound four months later," she says, "and by that time the lump had grown to the size of a softball. They Medi-flighted us to Mount Sinai for her surgery, but again the insurance refused to give authorization. They considered part of the operation—the Whipple procedure— experimental when done on a pediatric patient. We told them to do it anyway. Eighty-five thousand – what's more debt to a couple of twenty-year-olds, right?"_

" _I can't imagine," Cameron says. He doesn't want to sympathize with the people that are blackmailing him, but he can't help the tightness he feels in his throat. Strangely, he wishes there was more he could do._

 _The wife must sense his empathetic thoughts because all coldness and severity leave her. "We know seeing Brandon Russo in prison won't bring our daughter back," she tells Cameron plainly. "It won't make us happy or whole or healed, but it's something we need." Her gaze shifts to Jonathan and she gives him a small nod,_ go on then _, her expression seems to say._

 _Jonathan reaches into his suit jacket and Cameron goes rigid with fear, thinking_ gun, _but out comes a plain white envelope. He breathes out in relief and with healthy caution takes the document presented._

 _Inside the envelope Cameron finds the legal equivalent of a silver bullet. An Affidavit signed by Russo's right hand, Preston Connor, alleging that Russo repeatedly admitted to receiving kickbacks from pharmaceutical companies. He begins to feel a little nauseous at the prospect of taking someone like Russo down. It could be the highlight of his career and here it is, just handed to him._

" _How did you get this?" Cameron asks, not even attempting to mask his awe._

" _Wise monkeys don't ask questions," Jonathan says and Cameron hears_ blackmail _. Connor is caught in the web too. He wonders who else these cold souled Martells have in their grips._

" _Is this enough?" The redhead asks._

" _We'll have to find evidence establishing_ quid pro quo _, but yes," Cameron tells her. "It should be enough."_

" _Good," Jonathan says abruptly. He walks across the study and stops at the open door, adding, "Perhaps the next time you visit we won't be so disappointed."_

 _Feeling dismissed, Cameron makes to exit, but hears at his back, "Oh, and Mr. Dennis. One more thing."_

 _Cameron turns to Mrs. Martell slowly, slightly suspicious of her nonchalant tone._

" _You're not trying the case. Harvey Specter is."_

"Harvey _?" Cameron glances at Jonathan, who quirks a mildly surprised eyebrow at his wife. "My ADA?"_

 _The redhead nods as if her demand is perfectly reasonable._

" _Harvey's never even been to trial," Cameron argues, his face heating into an alarming shade of red. "The kid wouldn't be able to tell his ass from his elbow and you want him taking on a heavyweight like Brandon Russo?"_

" _I heard he's your golden boy."_

" _Sure, he's smart. But he's also hard-headed and can't follow directions for shit." Again he glances at Jonathan—_ talk some sense into her _his eyes plead._

" _Donna, are you sure about this? I know Alice liked—"_

"Harvey gets the case _," she repeats, and then out she walks, heels clicking with punctuating finality, making it clear to both men that there will be no argument._

 _Jonathan watches his wife's retreating figure, an uncharacteristic softness on his face that disappears so suddenly Cameron thinks he may have hallucinated it._

 _With the wife out of earshot, Cameron asks incredulously, "How do you think it will look if I hand a case this big to my assistant?"_

" _How it looks isn't my concern," Jonathan says, "winning is. So that Golden boy of yours better not fuck this up."_

II

When Mike and Harvey return from the balcony, the apartment is too quiet. The music has been turned off. Rachel, Gretchen and Louis are in the kitchen, talking in low voices. Donna is sitting in the living room with her back to everyone, an open magazine in her lap and her eyes fixed out the window.

Harvey leans against the counter next to Rachael and asks in a whisper, "Why aren't you in there with her?"

"I'm helping clean," Rachael says defensively, and as if to prove her point she picks up a sponge and gives the counter a blind swipe.

"Go sit with her."

Rachael hesitates, her eyes darting toward Donna. "I keep saying the wrong things," she confesses. "I really don't want to upset her any more than I already have." Her brown irises are swimming in teary-eyed guilt, looking into them Harvey feels the odd sense of looking into a mirror, his own feelings of uselessness and shame reflecting back at him. "Can't you go sit with her?" She asks.

At his back, Gretchen mutters, "The last thing Red needs is this fool bringing her down more."

"What's with Donna anyway?" Louis butts in. "She's been a total drama queen all night—which normally I would appreciate, but I'm feeling really heartbroken over Tara and she hasn't even offered me her arms to delicately weep into."

"What are you talking about?" Mike says to Louis, confusion weighing his features. "You were sobbing all over Donna when I got here." From the large jar of peanut butter he holds in his hand he lifts out a spoon and points it at the redhead's back. "She probably still has your snot prints staining her dress."

Louis nods with enthusiasm, his torso swaying to the rhythm of his bobbing head. "Donna is contracted to give me one uncontrollable sobbing session and three delicate weeping sessions in my moments of crisis." He pulls out his phone and hands it to Mike. "The agreement is in my iBooks as a PDF. You may notice a clause that states: if a weep turns into a sob, unused weeps must be forgone, but I'm telling you this was not the case tonight. I've been gypped."

"I'm sure Donna intends to be there for you, Louis," Rachael offers consolably. "She's just going through a lot right now."

"Yeah, you can't really blame her," Mike says. "I mean, shit she's being accused of con—"

Harvey elbows Mike in the side, but not quick enough to keep Louis from latching on.

"Donna's being accused of something?"

"Withholding information," Harvey says casually, which isn't a lie necessarily but he still feels like shit for it. "Gibbs' is on a crusade. I'm fixing it."

"You're goddamn right you're fixing it," Louis snaps. "I can't believe you're letting her get dragged into your bullshit again. She's not some sacrificial lamb."

Louis' words sink to the pit of Harvey's stomach leaving behind a residue of nausea. He fights to keep his calm, telling the angered partner, "The last thing I want is Donna in jeopardy, you know that."

This seems to appease Louis enough to relax his posture. He asks, "How much trouble is she in?"

"Hard to say."

"Do you have a defense?"

This question panics Harvey because he's nowhere near building a defense, mostly because he still doesn't know what he's defending Donna against. She hasn't specified her role in this Arms Scandal and he's worried she might play a bigger part than she's letting on. And worse, what if Gibbs finds out before him? What if she already knows? He thinks of the assistant attorney general's smug smile, her voice when she said she was going to drag his secretary out from beneath him— _no, this is still a vendetta to her_. Donna is a small fish, but he's afraid this new witness Gibbs has might change that.

"I'm fixing it," Harvey repeats, but he directs his response at Rachel, knowing the first step to fixing this is undoing the damage he's already done.

He grabs a bottle of cabernet and makes for the living room.

Round three.

III

Harvey strides into the living room and Donna knows he's high just by his gait, which is no longer surefooted and deliberate but tentative and uncertain, like maybe he's taken a wrong turn somewhere and gotten himself lost. Facing away from her, he pulls out his phone and links it to the sound system. A smooth jazzy melody fills the apartment with soft electric strums, while outside thunder rumbles and rain falls heavy against the window. Donna feels sealed in, as if she's sitting inside the delicate calm of a storm cellar, knowing just beyond the door waits the wreckage.

With obvious reluctance Harvey turns to her, lips slightly parted as if he's about to speak but something causes him to hesitate. Donna feels him searching, trying to pull the right words and phrases from her pupils, like an actor who has forgotten his lines and is looking to his fellow actress to cue him in.

And because her love for him is a sheltering love, she sacrifices for him. Takes the first hit, puts the first foot forward, however you want to look at it, and as always she doesn't feel like the bigger person, only the one who is more desperate.

"Hey," she whispers.

He gives her a small smile; it is equal parts grateful and relieved. "Hey."

"Did you draw the short straw?"

He glances at the group in the kitchen. "Exiled," he says, shifting his eyes back to her. "They're all pitted against me in there."

"You can't let them run you like that." She tries to put some form of animation in her voice, but she's so tired the effort is almost too much. "You're managing partner now."

"What do you think, then? Pay cuts all around?"

It's Donna's turn to break eye contact. She looks over her shoulder at the individuals in her kitchen; Gretchen, Louis and Rachael immediately turn away from her, bumping shoulders in a fury of movement, trying to make it look as though they weren't eavesdropping. Mike waves shamelessly. Donna winks at him.

"I don't know," she says, turning back. "They seem to be getting along better than they have in a while."

"That's because they're all on the same side for once. You should hear them in there, rallying at your back— if I didn't know any better I'd say I'm the worst boss in Manhattan."

Donna smiles fondly. "They'd eat their words if they saw my pay stubs."

"You're worth every penny."

"Oh, I know."

They share a smile. It feels good, lighter, but there is still too much burning beneath the surface for either of them to relax.

Donna points to the bottle of wine in Harvey's hand. "Is that for me?"

"My peace offering." He picks up her empty wine glass from the coffee table and refills it. When he offers it to her, he says with sincerity, "I don't want to fight anymore."

Donna hesitates, a dark eyebrow raised in suspicion. "I thought we were just getting started. You haven't even broken anything yet."

"You're going to make this hard for me?"

"After that apish tantrum you threw last night, you expect me to make it easy?"

"C'mon, Donna," he coaxes, and his voice is that soft rasp that she hates because it is too much like a caress. Goose bumps glide up her arms, probably spelling out to him in braille: _god, just touch me._ Moved to chivalry, he jokingly confesses, "You know I only reacted like that because I'm in love with you."

Her heart sinks, weighted by an inexplicable sadness. It shouldn't hurt this bad to hear him say those words, especially since she knows this teasing admission is deserved. It was a low blow blind-siding him with the "you're in love with me" accusation, asserting it on him, but she was desperate and backed into a corner and if she's completely honest she knew it would send him running. _How manipulative._ Weird, how some traits just trickle right back.

She yields to good humor. "You stole my punch line."

"You might have to get a new one. Mike's taken a shine to it."

"Or you could be less obvious."

He takes a seat next to her on the couch. The distance he keeps between them is careful, almost calculated. No less than 6 inches between their thighs, hands settled in his lap, clutching at her unaccepted glass of wine. He asks, "What gives me away?"

"How about that cactus you threw at my back?" She intended to keep the joking tone alive, but bitterness has seeped into her voice.

Harvey at least has the decency to look ashamed. "I was an asshole last night."

Donna doesn't disagree.

"I could have hurt you."

 _You did hurt me_ , part of her wants to tell him. _Don't you understand?_ But there is a larger part of her that convinces herself she deserves it _–_ on his side, as always. She hates herself for letting her past fall onto him like this and she thinks he's being too kind, holding her close (figuratively, of course) instead of holding her accountable. She should have told him the truth a long time ago, because now she's thirteen years in and still doesn't know how to begin to explain herself. She can't find the words to tell her story in a way that won't make her sound half-mad.

Anxious to make him feel better, she plays his ego. "You have a strike-out average of 10.54. I figure if you were trying to hit me, you would have."

Harvey smiles, but his lips can't quite let go of their weariness. "I thought after my father passed away there wouldn't be anyone left to quote my baseball stats."

Donna's unsurprised to find herself grouped in with the proud parent. There was a gaping hole inside of her after Alice passed away and illogically she filled it with Harvey. She took his hand and led him through life, put hers on hold – which is a blessing, really, when she thinks about it, because she panics, literally hyperventilates at the idea of having Christmases and anniversaries and birthday parties, falling in love and having an genuine relationship, the potential of another child.

Building a new life terrifies her. She's already messed it up once and sadly when it comes to life there's no quota to fill. Surviving one storm doesn't mean there isn't another waiting just over the horizon. And when she's tossing and turning in her half-empty bed, thinking maybe tomorrow she will walk into his office and just kiss him, these are the thoughts that put her to rest.

"How do you think I know your stats?" Donna grins, plastering cheerfulness over her growing disquiet. "Your father was like a broken record when it came to you and baseball. I swear I probably heard that Benny Villarreal story five hundred times." She puts on the voice she reserves for Gordon, raucous and passionate, with a slight Bay Stater accent. "I'm telling you Donna, this kid was the best hitter in Boston. He could pop a fly straight into left field with his eyes closed. So when the coach tells Harvey to walk him, no way he's gonna strike this kid out, what do you think my boy does?"

"He throws a fastball," Harvey continues, sounding so much like his father it gives Donna chills, "straight down the middle. And Benny swings."

"Misses."

"That cocky little shit probably spun 'round three times."

"Like a damn ballerina."

They both laugh. Harvey says, "God, he did tell that story a lot, didn't he?"

"It makes me feel like I was there."

"I wish," he whispers, so quietly it must be a thought Donna overhears.

A few seconds of significant silence pass. The music continues through to its closing chorus, outside thunder booms.

Finally Harvey says, "Listen," and his eyes meet Donna's with a softness she wasn't expecting. She goes rigid, holds her breath, as if a rare bird has landed in front of her and she doesn't want to scare him off. "I know I haven't exactly been supportive – but I'm here for you. You know that, right?"

Donna feels her throat constrict. She can only nod.

"That doesn't mean I'm not mad as hell, just…"—his eyes shy away, drawing words from his feet—"you being okay takes priority."

Guilt surges through Donna's chest. That protective part of her wants to tell him off for being an idiot – _I don't deserve this, I've lied to you –_ but instead, she says, "I appreciate that, Harvey."

More silence follows. They both sit quietly as if waiting for the words to fix everything to flow off their tongues. But none come.

The track changes. Michael Kiwanuka's, _Cold Little Heart_ , flows out of the speakers.

Harvey stands up, sets the glass of wine on the table and offers Donna his hand, palm up. "Dance with me," he says.

Donna stares at him, feeling as though his words have come out of an alternate universe where such things can be said so casually. "You're not serious…"

"Why not?"

She gives him a silent wry look that says, _you know why,_ but adds to it a reminder of the group at their backs."Louis forgot to take his blood pressure medication. It'll give him palpitations."

Harvey rolls his eyes. "I know being close to me gives you urges—"

"The only _urge_ I get when I'm close to you is to punch you in the face."

"It just takes a little willpower, Donna."

"Harvey—"

"Fine, Fine. I'll let you touch my butt, but that's where I draw the line."

"Oh Jesus Christ," she mutters, resisting the impulse to laugh. He flashes her a broad grin and she's reminded of every four AM spent sitting in the DA's office listening to him talk about how he could probably survive off hotdogs alone, how he stole a Casio calculator watch from Martin Owens in the second grade and still loses sleep over it, how all he wants in life is to help people. "Strange," she says, "you sound just like this arrogant ADA I used to know."

"Was he as handsome as I am?"

"Definitely less gray."

His smile doesn't waiver. "C'mon. One dance, just to liven things up," – he nods his head toward the kitchen – "get those hens in there gossiping."

She sighs, feeling her reservations subsiding. He must sense her surrender because he further extends his hand and she is reaching for him before the better part of her can convince her not to.

The moment her hand slides into his all of her apprehension dissolves. The world goes quiet; her surroundings melt away until it is just him, his deep brown eyes, and her hand and his hand, like two awkward shapes that fit together with such ease it seems unnatural that they were ever separate.

"Are you sure about this?" she asks, standing up to face him. Her bare feet give his tallness a daunting quality and she finds herself using the old stage trick of biting the inside of her lip to keep herself from blushing. "Could be a long dark road back from here."

She feels the warmth of his other hand through the fabric of her dress as it settles against her hip. "As long as you walk it back with me," he tells her softly.

Her teeth sink further until she is tasting blood. Suddenly she's terrified that she will never get over him, that she will be 70 years old with the same ache in her chest and itch under her skin…

But if the alternative is never again seeing that Cheshire cat grin, or hearing him quote Thelma and Louise for the umpteenth time, or missing out on those 2 AM phone calls because he can't sleep and the alphabet game is no fun solo (he does car makes, she does designers – Ashton Martin, Burberry, Chevrolet, Dior – he always falls asleep thinking about 'O'), then the dull ache she endures daily is nothing compared to what life would be like without him.

"I'd go anywhere with you, Harvey," she says, laying her free hand on his shoulder. "You know that."

Harvey closes his eyes briefly, peacefully. As if he expected her response to be something else entirely. When he opens his eyes again, he seems about to say something but a distant popping noise interrupts him.

The electricity cuts out.

A gasp erupts from the kitchen, not an inhale of surprise but one of utter disappointment. Rachael.

Donna forces a soft chuckle. "Well, if this isn't divine intervention…"

Harvey's hand moves, she expects to release her, but it slides around to the small of her back, drawing her in.

Then, absurdly, in an impressive baritone, he picks up where Kiwanuka left off.

His voice drifts through the darkness and is greeted, first, by silent awe. Then someone in the kitchen, probably Mike, takes up an encouraging drumbeat - a shake of the silverware drawer, a palm slapping a wooden cabinet. Another someone joins in as the counter-harmony - Gretchen, her voice soulful and lifting.

Then Louis, bless him, enters with the high-pitched soprano; the words are irrelevant to him, he might as well be singing something else entirely. Mike and Rachael "Ooo and Ahh."

Harvey, with the confidence of the choir at his back, doesn't let himself be put off by Donna, who, in a seizure of surprise can only marvel mutely, stuck between amusement and deep affection (it is one of the most beautiful and ridiculous thing she's ever heard), he leads her suavely to the intermittently rhythmic beat.

"I think Louis has stolen the show," Harvey whispers, dropping out at the chorus. The others continue on without him. "What's that he's singing? U2?"

"Shakespeare's _Blow, blow, thou winter wind_." Donna hears herself say. Her voice seems to come out of a void – maybe she's dreaming. Hallucinating? How much wine did she drink? She can't remember.

"Damn him," Harvey mutters. His arm encircles her, inching her closer until she feels his body, warm and solid, pressed against hers. "He's always gotta one up me."

Moved by impulse, Donna glides her hand up Harvey's shoulder. Her fingertips brush the skin of his neck, further, through the fine hairs at his nape, the strands like water slipping through her fingers; there isn't enough of him to hold on to.

Harvey dips down, touches his nose to hers. His breath stirs against her lips, and a voice inside of her shouts, _for god's sake, kiss him._ But she realizes with heartbreaking clarity that that is a dead end. That is him on her doorstep saying 'let's not make a big show of it' before he turns his back. It's 'you know I love you' and 'I only said it to make you feel better.' It's a wound that doesn't heal.

She steps back, knocking the coffee table with the back of her knees. The wine glass topples. Clatters. Spills at her feet. She says, "Shit," and he whispers, "Leave it. Donna, please?" as he tries to pull her back to him.

But she can't leave it because the rug is white and the wine is red, and even in the dark she can picture the horrendous stain it'll leave. A constant reminder: what if, if only, why not, it's not fair.

"I can't," she says, and again, "I'm sorry, I can't."

* * *

 **A/N:** I was hesitant about pushing Harvey's character too much in that last act and even wrote an alternate version of this chapter. **Kate McK** pointed out that after downloading and listening to the song (Michael Kiwanuka - Cold Little Heart) it seemed more plausible, so if you hate it, give this a try.

With regard to the flashback, I should mention that the case against Russo is criminal case and not civil. The charges are for Russo personally receiving kickbacks, therefore it's Russo vs The State and not Russo vs The Martells (meaning that on paper, the case has nothing to do with the Martells).


	11. Home is Where Your Heart is

**A/N: I think it goes without saying at this point, but this chapter is a bit dark in the beginning. The flashback deals with some nihilistic thoughts, so just a heads up. And again, a big thanks to Kate McK for being my second pair of eyes.**

I

 _The first day of December dawns with a chill. Donna pulls herself out of bed. The amount of effort it takes to move her limbs is almost insurmountable, like there is something grabbing at the hem of her clothing, dragging her back toward the sheets, telling her persuasively there is just no use. There is no use because today will be just as bleak as yesterday. No use because Alice is gone and what's left in her life will never be enough to make her feel whole again._

 _She might as well not get out of bed._

 _She might as well be—_

 _Downstairs Donna puts on a pot of coffee, picks up the newspaper for Jonathan – eyes darting over her shoulder as she sneaks out the obituary section – and then disappears up to the balcony. She paces, bare feet treading cold stone, weaving around garden planters which have fallen into such a state of neglect she's received letters from neighbors discomforted by the overgrown jungle of weeds. Her garden used to be something to envy: sword-shaped Yuccas with large white flowers, velvety green Plectranthus and Strobilanthes, white- and pink-mottled leaves of Roseopicta (Alice's favorite because they look like they've been snowed upon). Now it's nothing but withered-up husks and rotted petals, botanical decay, and to Donna this is how it should be. Dead at the peak of the season. Dead at the peak of their beauty. Dead with a whole life ahead of them. It's only fair._

 _She scans her list of deceased, looking only at ages: two five-year-olds, an eight-year-old, a little girl of three. It makes her sick that she finds solace in dead children, but she needs to know for her sanity that she hasn't been singled out. It's a sadistic sliver of comfort, picturing this other mother out there, standing alone in her equally decrepit garden having just buried her three-year-old (yes, she got four more years with Alice, she's the lucky one). Still, it doesn't ease her sadness; it only makes her feel less alone._

 _Horns honk on Greenwich Street. Seagulls dive and swoop through the slate sky. Donna feels the world whiz by her, circling around and around, this infinity that never stops, not even for a moment._

 _Overwhelmed, she goes back inside and puts a check mark next to '_ spend an hour outdoors.' _If she doesn't cancel on her therapist this week, she won't be able to look the woman in the eyes._

 _Jonathan comes down at seven-thirty, showered, shaven and dressed. He reads over the financial pages while Donna wraps his tie, remarking coolly as she pulls the knot up to his collar, "We're still out of groceries."_

 _Donna lies without hesitation. "I'm sorry. I meant to go shopping yesterday, but it slipped my mind." To admit she actually left the house, got a cab, picked up half the shopping list and then broke down in the middle of the bakery aisle would almost certainly lead to another one of his lectures—_ You have to snap out of it, Donna. You can't be sad forever, it's just not practical— _as If it's within her control._

" _It's alright," he says dismissively, but his eyes challenge her._ You know better than to lie to me, _they say._ You know better.

 _She does_ know _better…but how does she tell someone, especially someone as insensitive as her husband, that everything is beginning to feel like too much effort. That going out into the world means seeing the people around her functioning and living, and having to wonder why she's the only one who is struggling, breaking, falling to pieces, perpetually stuck between being terrified this pain is enough to kill her and half-hoping that it does. Donna can hardly come to terms with it herself, this strange and almost frightening thought that maybe it would be easier to just feel nothing._

 _That maybe she should just—_

" _Something bugging you?"_

 _She looks into her husband's gray eyes and feels an overwhelming throb of resentment_

 _(_ you're the saint holding her down while they cut her open _)_

 _She says "no" just so she doesn't have to say anything else._

 _Normally Jonathan wouldn't press, but this morning he surprises her. "How are we supposed to salvage our marriage if you won't speak to me?"_

" _There's nothing to say."_

" _Then tell me how you're feeling."_

" _Isn't that what you pay the shrink for?" She adjusts his tie knot, twisting it more to the center. She entertains the idea of pulling the knot tighter, of choking him with it, but forces herself to let go. "I would hate to burden you with my sadness."_

 _Jonathan smiles to show he gets the dig, but thinly to show he doesn't find it amusing. "Aren't you a fucking little know-it-all?"_

" _Your methods aren't exactly inconspicuous. More coffee?" She doesn't wait for him to respond, but takes his cup and moves to the other end of the kitchen. A light flurry has started. Snow swirls and flutters above them, turning the glass ceiling opaque._

 _He says at her back, "You act like I scorn you for being emotional."_

" _Don't you?"_

" _Only when you're being overdramatic."_

" _My daughter died." There is no reproach in her voice, grim as the conversation is, her tone remains remarkably indifferent. "I should be allowed to occasionally cry myself to sleep over it."_

" _My daughter died too and I'm still able to leave the goddamn house every once in a while."_

 _Donna turns to hand him back his cup. Filled to the brim, it almost spills over in the exchange._

 _Jonathan stares into her eyes, waiting for a reaction she's not capable of giving. Like everything else, fighting back has become too much effort. She says, "I guess we grieve differently."_

" _It's been six months. You should be passed this."_

" _How?" She demands helplessly, "Please, tell me. What's your secret?"_

 _He senses her accusation. "There is no secret. I'm just as miserable as you are, but I have bills to pay and a wife to take care of. You have to drag yourself up from the ground and keep going."_

" _Toward what?"_

 _And to that, Jonathan doesn't seem to know what to say. She watches his firm face fall into an expression of uncertainty that is so rare she freezes at the sight of it. He has always been her answers; his rationalizations are harsh but honest, and the fact that he can't offer her even a simple platitude is more than disheartening, it is absolute. She is staring down the barrel of a gun, seeing the trajectory of her life reflected in his solemn eyes: bleak, lifeless, graygraygray. It expands and keeps going._

 _Resigned, Jonathan grabs his cell phone off the counter and signals for his wallet. "You're acting like the first person to ever lose a child. But people die, Dee – babies, children, spouses. Experiencing loss isn't unique."_

 _Donna lets out a sigh and looks out the window. Then, reluctantly: "Why can't I just feel what I feel without having to constantly justify myself to you?"_

" _Because I can't be happy unless you're happy. And in order to make you happy I've thrown away three hundred thousand dollars, four years of my life, and committed an innumerable amount of felonies, all so that you could have a sense of closure when Alice died._ _" And because everything boils down to a business deal in Jonathan's head, he adds, "I've held up my end. Now I want my wife back."_

" _Are you saying I owe you?"_

 _Jonathan gazes at Donna steadily. "I'm saying this refrigerator better have some goddamn milk in it when I get home." Then he turns away and through the darkening, too quiet house he walks, steps so filled with grace and power each footfall makes Donna wince inwardly, as if being crushed._

 _Suddenly she wants to scream, cry, beg: Stop. Please stop. Turn around, tell me you love me, tell me I'm recoverable, tell me it isn't all meaningless._

 _But the front door swings shut behind him. She is dismissed and disregarded, left with the overwhelming thought reverberating in her head—_

I can't do this anymore.

II

In the intimacy of her own home Donna never sits properly, Harvey realizes. She is either perched or Indian-style, sometimes her legs are tucked beneath her, sometimes they're pressed against her chest, and never is she on a surface meant for sitting. There's something in it, something free-spirited and unruly, that he thinks maybe has to do with her mother. From the single time he met Sandra, he got the impression she was one of those 'keep your back straight, honey, no one likes a slouch' types, and here is Donna, nearly forty and still defiant, sitting on top of the counter, a leg pulled up to her chest, and would be exposed if it wasn't for the strategic placement of her foot, which is centered in such a way to hide what lies between (Harvey is grateful for this, with her dress hiked up as it is, seeing so much of her bare legs is enough to drive him mad).

The power came back on around midnight, prompting the party to disassemble. Harvey lingered after the rest left, partly because he thought Donna might open up about the case with the others out of earshot, but mostly he didn't want to leave her alone in the state she's in.

They talk quietly in the kitchen together. Harvey washes the dishes and Donna dries. She is talking about Mike and Rachael, their upcoming wedding, how they can't agree on a song, and all he can think about is how the lipstick has rubbed off her lips and the natural color of them is so much sexier than all that gloss she wears. He's thinking about her hands, and how right now they're carefully polishing a dish but they'd be better running through his hair, down his chest, unbuckling his—

Donna nudges Harvey with a barefoot. "Quit that."

He swallows. "Quit what?"

"Looking at me like that."

"Am I not allowed to look at you?"

"Not like that."

"And how is _that_ exactly?"

"Like you don't recognize me anymore."

Harvey is startled; he can't see how she came to this conclusion. It's unusual for her to be wrong, especially about him. He tries to amend: "I'm just trying to figure out what kind of person makes six figures, yet doesn't own a dish washer." He hands her another plate. She sees that he's missed a spot and hands it back to him.

"This apartment didn't come with the hook-ups for it."

"There are other apartments." And because he's been meaning to bring this up, he adds, "You've been living here since I met you. Don't you think you're due for an upgrade?"

"I like it here."

"No one likes it west of 34th."

"I do."

"Why?"

Donna is serious for a moment. She searches his eyes, her face carefully blank aside from a thoughtful crease between the brows. Finally she says, "Alice is buried at the back of St. Michael's," then grabs the plate back from him, feigning casualness, but her posture is terse, as if she is standing naked before him and fighting like hell not to be self-conscious about it. "Home is where your heart is, right?"

An emotion rises inside of Harvey, an unexpected breathlessness, like missing a stair step. Suddenly he sees Alice's freckled face, nose scrunched up by the force of her over-eager smile. He remembers her laugh, how it seemed to expand and fill the room. He hears her say, clear as day, "I like it when they do the slides." And his heart just breaks. How can someone so alive be reduced to 'buried at the back of St. Michael's'? He doesn't understand and the question echoes and echoes and echoes.

He leans forward and clasps his hands to the sink basin. Tight, because all his hands want to do right now is break something. _Stop it,_ he tells himself. _Pull yourself together._ But his chest is already feeling compressed by the heaviness of panic, like he's being held under water, drowning.

Before he can stop himself, he confesses, "Donna, I knew her."

There is silence for a moment. The tap drips, plops heavy and too loud into the sink. Somewhere outside an ambulance howls.

Then: "I know."

Harvey turns to her slowly, surprised by her direct response and even more shocked by the calm in her voice.

But of course she knew. She saw him at the hospital…gave him the same look she's giving him now: placid, assured, resilient. How the hell had _he_ missed this?

"I remember the first time I heard your name." She offers him a tired smile. "I had just picked Alice up from a sleepover. Do you know what a colostomy bag is?"—She points to her lower abdomen—"She had one fitted after one of her surgeries. The seal must not have been on well enough and while she was sleeping it ruptured and leaked everywhere. I thought she'd be hysterical – practically pooping the bed at a friend's house is beyond traumatic – but when I picked her up the next day she was perfectly fine. I thought she was just numb, you know? PTSD. So I started to console her, accidents happen, it wasn't your fault, that sort of thing, but she interrupted me with this charming piece of wisdom: In order to be great you gotta shit the bed every once in a while." She quirks a knowing eyebrow at Harvey, her smile more genuine. "After the shock of hearing my darling seven year old curse at me, I asked her who she was quoting. She said, 'Harvey Specter. He's an attorney. He puts away bad guys.'"

Harvey swallows against a tightening throat and smiles apologetically."I didn't mean for her to take me so literally."

"Kids can be silly like that." Donna slides off the counter and drops the dish towel next to the sink. "Anyway, I'll finish these up tomorrow. It's getting late."

With nothing left to say, she crosses into the living room; Harvey stands by awkwardly, a little confused by the sudden shift in conversation. She comes at him like a wave, slamming him with honesty, watching him falter, then recedes back before he can show her that maybe he could bear it if given a moment to regain his footing.

Realizing he's being dismissed, Harvey follows after her. There are too many questions circling around in his head, too many unknowns and not enough constants. Watching her reach for the door, he skips the formalities and asks in a subdued voice, "How come you never told me about her?"

She seems content to ignore him, so he presses, "If you knew I knew her, why not tell me you were her mother?" _Were? Are? Shit._

She turns to him and considers. There is a hint of irritation in her eyes, a tired weariness – _haven't I given you enough?_ Then she exhales and drops her hand from the door handle. "I was afraid you'd think I let her down."

"Why the hell would I think that?"

Her eyes shift away from his. It is answer enough.

"Donna, what happened to her wasn't your fault."

"How do you know that?" She bends her dark eyes on him piercingly. "I could have been more vigilant with her check-ups and caught it sooner. Maybe I did something while I was pregnant that caused it. You don't know."

"I know you," he argues, his voice taking on the edge and confidence of a trial attorney. "I know you're the most capable woman I've ever met, and I know that in the thirteen years you've given me you've never once let me down."

She shakes her head stubbornly, angry eyes filling with tears. She turns away before they can spill over and takes in a shaky breath.

Harvey lifts a hand out. For a moment it only hovers between them, idle, a bold thought without the confidence to back it up. Then he thinks, _to hell with it_ , and steps forward. He takes her chin and gently coaxes her back to him.

"You're _Donna_ ," he tells her softly. "If there was anyone in this world that could have saved her, it was you."

Her mouth parts in surprise. Without thinking Harvey brushes his thumb against the soft swell of her lower lip, outlining the curve. He feels a strange inertia, a push to close the gap, the vitalness almost as necessary and visceral as breathing.

He forces his gaze back up and meets those dark eyes. She stares at him, anxious—afraid, confused. Then her eyes drop down to his lips and Harvey senses – briefly but very much there— desire, a yearning nearly equal to his, and for all of his willpower and years of keeping away he knows in this moment there's no more pretending.

He lowers his mouth slowly and brushes his lips over hers. It is just a touch, experimental, almost childish, and like a childish first kiss it bears down on him, gigantic, transcending mere romance and filling him with a passion he thought he lost with his youth. His blood beats through him in a wild uproar, sending a dizzying, slightly intoxicating cascade of ecstasy rippling all the way down to his toes.

He kisses her again, firmer. More certain. She greets him with gentle open lips, her tongue touching his tentatively, warm and sweet with the flavor of cabernet. He parts with a groan and she clings to his bottom lip, not aggressively, but with a desperate need to keep contact. Whatever composure Harvey has left dissolves. He buries a hand in her hair and tips her head up, deepening the kiss, and with the other, takes hold of her hip and presses her against him.

Donna's breath hitches; she pulls off. "Harvey," she whispers, sharp, like a warning. He tries to reconnect but she turns her face, exposing her long graceful neck. He sees it as an invitation and leans in, pressing his lips against the delicate skin along her jaw, mouth parting to taste her. She gasps, and again his name comes to her lips. Pleading.

He pulls back. Their eyes brush passed each other's. Everything is still for a moment aside from their labored breathing. Then, something shifts inside of her, dies out along the curve of her mouth and in her eyes. Like a spell breaking, the air around them grows stale and remorseful.

Harvey's hands fall away. He straightens and steps back.

Donna neither speaks nor moves. She stands, a statue of shock, the whites of her eyes showing all around her brown irises.

"Donna, I..." He trails off. "I better go."

Dazed, almost sick with regret, Harvey shows himself out the door.


	12. Against the Tide

**Warning: prepare for pain**

 **And as always, huge thanks to Kate McK for her lovely edits/comments, and** **ashadesofblue who offers me all of the best writing advice.**

 **(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)**

* * *

I

The cactus is beginning to yellow. Harvey notices the discoloration on Saturday morning and moves the plant further into the window light, but come Sunday brown rot has crept in at the tip of one of the branches.

He google's 'cactus dying' and is relieved to find issues in the plant's body can be treated by excising the diseased tissue. So Sunday evening, with a glass of scotch and a sterile razor, he goes in firm handed and digs out the damage. It is worse than he thought, and by the end of the operation he has amputated entire limbs. Still, he fears the damage extends deeper, down into the roots, that it is riddled with the type of decay that branches out through the layers, never showing until it's rotten through.

Later, lying in bed, he stares out at the Manhattan skyline and watches evening burn down into night. He is dead tired, has felt tired all weekend, but he can't sleep, can't eat, can't focus, can't even get it up to jerk-off and relax himself. With all that he's accomplished in life, lying here in this empty bed, he somehow feels like he hasn't accomplished much at all. It is too much of the same thing, and he realizes he's growing tired of it: tired of law, of court rooms, of continually being sued. Even the effort of putting himself into a three-piece and then, sixteen hours later, taking himself out of it is getting exhausting.

He reaches for his phone on the side table. According to the display it is ten past two in the morning. He opens up his text messages and taps Donna's name. Her last response, "see you soon," feels like it was sent ages ago. He's kissed her since then, felt her lips, had her in his arms…

His assault on her – because isn't that what it is when someone pulls away and the other keeps coming? – now feels clumsy and abrupt. He's humiliated, but worse than that, he took advantage of her vulnerability. He saw that crack starting to form in her steely composure and desperately tried to shove himself through it. It was selfish, a characteristic so engrained in him it's become like a fine-tuned talent.

He can't escape himself.

The night stretches on, and Harvey finds himself scrolling through the years, rereading past text conversations. It's like going through a museum of every mistake he's ever made, a blatant display of every opportunity that's passed him by.

He wishes he could give her back the moments when he chose his words too carefully, when he reacted too cautiously or too recklessly, all the times he let her fill in the blanks, apologize for him, be the better man. He wants to go back and change the way he hesitated, panicked, and left out of fear.

He types out at least fifteen different apologies, but all he really wants to say is 'I love you.' He wants to send it out through the years so that she knows this isn't him going out on a limb. This is in his roots, spread through every inch of him. It is years and years of erosion and he's finally wilting to it.

But he says nothing. He lays back and stares at the city, glowing so bright it blots out the night's sky. He drifts off, thinking of the memory he keeps tucked away of her naked silhouette. She asks, "When was the last time you saw the stars?"

As always she comes for him. She slips beneath his sheets and caresses his face, gentle fingertips tracing along his jawline. This time he doesn't make the mistake of letting her get away. He carefully brings his hand out to touch her face where it must lay, waking only to find his hand reaching out into the darkness, touching empty air.

II

Donna is waiting for Harvey in his office when he gets in. He had expected a fiery tirade, but what he finds is a picture of cool self-possession, unmoved and inaccessible, as if what happened between them didn't actually happen.

 _Did it happen?_

The question brings forth a visual, her neck buckling as he kissed her throat, the way she had sighed out his name. He pushes it out.

As always she looks beautiful in a way that is otherworldly, with New York and its million windows at her back. Her loveliness is set into her framework; it is in her bones, in the redness of her hair, in the ivory glow of her skin contrasted by the black dress she wears, which is shorter than normal, ending almost lewdly at her mid-thigh.

The proximity of her turns Harvey's body clumsy and rigid. He approaches carefully on weighted legs, his heart pumping a strange rhythm – simultaneously in love and in mourning – it can't decide whether to break or beat faster.

Donna watches him. There is something veiled and remote in her eyes. He notices she's holding a piece of paper and feels a coldness at the pit of his stomach. _Her resignation?_ He takes a seat at the edge of his desk and waits with a growing sense of unease.

"BGB Holdings was formally charged this morning." She hands him the document. Compared to him, her gestures seem fluid and casual. All business. "And Matt O'Brien is in the conference room waiting for you."

Staring down at the summons, Harvey tries not to look relieved. "I don't have time to take meetings," he tells her. "We'll have to reschedule."

"He's the CEO of IOE."

"I don't care if he's the CEO of Google. Get rid of him."

"And then what? We lose another client?"

Harvey ignores this, his stare committed to the document in his hands, but what he's really thinking about is how they've somehow miraculously come full circle. Back to 'normal.' Boss and secretary. But he feels this distance between them has grown ocean-wide, and their kiss, a ship without sails, sinks to the bottom of it, buried alongside a thousand unsaid words and a lifetime of missed chances. Irrecoverable.

"Harvey, look at me."

He lifts his gaze, meeting brown eyes that are somehow both stern and tender. The stare reminds him of his mother's and a childish desire to please the severity out of her rises inside of him.

"Jessica isn't here anymore," she says. "This is on you."

"And what about our DoJ cases?" He's trying not to snap at her, but he's more tired and impatient than he knew. "Who's going to handle them if I'm tied up for an hour? And your case, do you really want me shoving that aside for some ego stroking session?" Donna opens her mouth to speak, but he interrupts before she can reply, "If you want someone to kiss ass, go find Louis."

She sighs. He is making her tired. "Louis is neck deep in the financials you passed off to him on Friday."

"Which I wouldn't have had to do if you hadn't _lied_ to me." He stands up to face her, angry, not because of what they're actually arguing about, but because she is acting so far removed from Friday night. He wants to rip apart her resolve, surround her like a city under siege. _Come out or I'll break you open_. "If you hadn't told me not to go to your deposition – if you hadn't _stupidly_ passed up Anita's deal..."

Once again he expects anger out of her, savagely desires it, and once again he is met by mildness. "My case isn't your problem."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You're not named attorney, Rachel is."

Wounded, Harvey fights the urge to recoil. "Are you saying you want me off your case?"

"I'm saying you have other priorities."

"My priority is keeping you out of _prison,_ Donna."

She fixes him with a reproachful glance. "You still don't even know what I've done."

"It doesn't matter."

"I'mguilty, Harvey."

" _It doesn't matter_ ," he yells at her. "Don't you get that? If I lose this, all I'm losing is my name on some fucking wall, but if I lose you, I lose everything."

Donna's color heightens, flushes up her neck and into her cheeks. Her chest rises and falls a little quicker.

Harvey slumps back against his desk, drained by the admission. He waits. They have been together for so long he has learned that in moments like this, sometimes waiting is better than talking. He has said too many stupid things trying to impulsively fill the gaping silences.

At last, Donna says, slowly and wearily, "If this firm goes under, that's it for us. I won't follow you anywhere else."

And all Harvey hears as she turns and walks away is: _You've lost me already._

III

From the break room comes a string of male grunts, then a crash, followed by a unique combination of obscenities. Rachel peers in to figure out what the damage is and finds Harvey with a large coffee stain down the front of his shirt. The espresso machine is busted into pieces on the floor across the room.

"Did you—" She starts, but is interrupted by Louis sauntering up behind her.

" _Thank god_ ," he says, walking passed Harvey's mess and over to the refrigerator. "I was waiting for someone to properly dispose of that piece of shit. Shall I put in an order for a De'Longhi? We could use a bean roaster."

Harvey doesn't reply. He is standing still with his hands gripping the counter, his stare fixed on the granite top. Rachel keeps a careful eye on him, making sure this isn't the beginning of an explosion, but he remains calm…or worse, defeated. She has seen him tired – actually it's been a while since she's seen him _not tired_ , but this is a different kind of exhaustion. Rachel hates the idea of a man like Harvey Specter being vulnerable, but she thinks that he is.

"I must say," Louis continues, peering into the fridge, "I wasn't expecting much from Donna's shindig considering the venue – I mean I could fit her entire apartment inside my pantry and still have room for my six-foot statue of Bruno as a lion hybrid – but after journaling about it, I realize Friday night was probably the highlight of my year thus far." He pulls out a smoothie cup filled with chunky green liquid and begins to shake it vigorously. "I'm on a high. I only cried over Tara seven times over the weekend, which is eighteen times less than last weekend, and I explored new interests by going to that spa at the Women's Center on Broadway—"

Rachel quirks an eyebrow. "Isn't that an OB/GYN clinic?"

"Yes, they've added a spa."

"But for women..."

"Right, but according to New York's Human Right's law, I can say I'm a woman and no one is allowed to question it." Louis shrugs, gulps his smoothie and then lets out a satisfied exhale. "Also, my spirit animal is the Canterbury Mudfish, which happens to be a synchronous hermaphrodite."

Unable to argue either of these points, Rachel turns her attention back to Harvey. He seems to grow paler by the minute. She grabs a stack of napkins and begins to blot what she can off his shirt. He doesn't notice.

"Wait." Rachel looks back at Louis suspiciously. "You didn't go to that OB clinic because you thought you'd run into Tara, did you?

Louis huffs. "Come on, Rachel. Does hanging around a women's health clinic in the off chance I might see Tara and beg for her forgiveness sound like something I would do?"

"That sounds _exactly_ like something you would do."

"Well you're right!" Louis slams his drink onto the counter. Green liquid erupts out of the uncapped bottle and splashes him in the face. He powers through it. "And I'll have you know, I cried all goddamn weekend and I'm crying right now, you just can't tell because I'm severely dehydrated." He reaches over and rips the napkins out of Rachel's hand. Wiping himself off, he says, "And FYI – that's an Italian roasted Nicaraguan blend on a crisp white shirt, there's no goddamn way you're getting that stain out."

He tosses the napkins – he's missed a spot beneath his chin, but Rachel's in no mood to tell him this – and barrels out, adding as he goes, "Also, I would avoid the men's room for the next 3 to 5 hours. I sent an email, subject line Habanero cheese, if you're interested in the specifics."

With Louis gone, the break room falls silent. Rachel takes in a shaky breath, wondering how the hell Donna does it. Keeping Louis in line is hassle enough; having to deal with both volatile men at the same time has put her on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

She grabs more napkins and tries again to help Harvey clean up the coffee stain, but Louis was right. It's no use.

"Do you have a spare shirt?" Rachel asks.

Harvey just looks at her. His eyes have lost their firmness. The authoritative part of him that always makes her cower in his presence is gone, replaced by a helplessness that breaks Rachel's heart to witness.

"Harvey?" She presses, touching his shoulder gently.

He shuts his eyes. When he opens them again, he says, "I kissed her."

"What?" Rachel doesn't understand. "Kissed who?"

"Donna."

She steps back, wide-eyed. She must have misheard him, that or she's hallucinating. She can't think of any other reason why Harvey would be sharing _this_ with _her_ , of all people.

He sees her shock and nods.

"When?" She asks.

"Friday night."

Selfishly Rachel feels sadness at the thought that this happened days ago and Donna has yet to mention it – hasn't even offered a hint. She feels a rift growing between herself and the redhead, and she doesn't understand why or what she can do to stop it.

And here is Harvey, pulling closer, looking to her as a confidant. _How bizarre._

"Why are you telling me this?" she probes, not unkindly.

"Because she pulled away and I kept…" He exhales and looks down at his hands, then back up at Rachel. She nods encouragingly. "I realized she wanted me to stop. And when I looked at her, I saw…" Again he trails off, in search of a word. It dawns on him, heavy. "Doubt."

 _Doubt?_ What could Donna doubt? Harvey's motives? Having held off for so many years, such bold action from him can't be called anything _but_ sincere. It must be something else. Maybe something to do with Donna and her own feelings…

As if reading her thoughts, Harvey begins to nervously loosen his tie.

"I think it's just bad timing," Rachel says, trying to sound earnest. "She's going through a lot."

Harvey lets out a dry laugh. "Yeah, facing prison, mourning her deceased daughter, her ex-husband all over the news…" He leans back against the counter and runs a hand over his face. " _Kissing her –_ what the hell is wrong with me? I should be taken out back and shot."

"Don't be so hard on yourself."

"I just don't know what to do, Rachel," he says, his voice is barely above a whisper. "It kills me to see her hurting, but instead of being what she needs I keep contributing to the problem."

He is looking at her like she supposed to save him, desperate, drowning. In her head Harvey is indomitable and seven-foot tall, but right now he looks so small and broken. It's faith shaking. She wants to cry and run away, find somewhere to hide until this all blows over.

"I'm sorry, Harvey, I don't know what to say," she admits weakly. "I feel exactly the same."

Strangely, her answer seems to bring him relief, as if he wasn't looking for rescue, only to feel less alone. He affords her a soft appreciative glance, and he looks so wide-open and approachable that Rachel boldly steps forward and hugs him tightly. The side of her face presses against his chest and the muffled rhythm of his heart plays in her ear – she was half-convinced he didn't have one, but here it is.

Suddenly a realization strikes Rachel. Pulling back, she says, on impulse, "You love her."

Harvey looks down at her, throat working. He struggles some more, then says, "You have no idea how much."

IV

Mike is staring down at his desk, transfixed by one of Donna's employment documents from the DA, when Rachel walks in.

"Do you have a spare dress shirt?" she asks. He hears her open a cabinet drawer. "Harvey spilt coffee all over himself."

Mike ignores her question. "Come have a look at this."

Rachel moves to his desk, takes the slip of paper and gives it a quick glance over. "It's Donna's Employment Verification from the DA."

"Yeah." Mike smiles. "I got that much."

She fixes him with a hostile glare. "Don't ask for my help if you're going to be a dick about it."

"Whoa." Mike lifts his hands, palms up. "No need to bite my head off."

"I'm sorry, it's just…" She sighs. "Harvey."

"What about him?"

"He's a mess, Mike."

He hasn't seen Harvey all morning, but he imagines the managing partner is in over his head now that BGB Holdings was formally charged. With Jessica gone and Donna at risk, being slapped with a huge federal case probably has Harvey in a whirlwind of manic fury. Mike cringes in his seat just thinking about it. "He'll get his bearings," he says gently, and he hopes to god he's right. They've been like a bunch of school children, operating in chaos while the teacher's stepped out. Someone needs to take control, and quickly.

Rachel doesn't look convinced, but she nods anyway and drops her attention back to the EV.

"Anything sticking out to you?" Mike asks after a moment.

"Actually, yes." She lays the document on his desk and points. "The hiring authorizer was Cameron Dennis."

He stares down at the familiar signature. _Yes, that's it._ Which begs the question—

"Why would the district attorney sign off on the verification of an entry level secretary?" Rachel asks, beating him to it. "Isn't that a job for someone in HR?"

Mike nods. "You would think."

She purses her lips; he can tell her mind is reeling. "It doesn't make sense."

"That's not the only thing that doesn't make sense." He shuffles around his desk and picks up another document. "After Jonathan took the title of board director at Duke-Sanger, Donna was named Chief of Operations."

" _COO_?"

"Even if she wanted to move jobs to get away from Jonathan," Mike continues, "why go from an executive position to a low-grade government secretary?"

Rachel shakes her head, baffled. She repeats, "Donna was _COO_?"

Mike barely hears her, on a roll. "And Harvey mentioned Jonathan taking meetings with Cameron. So there's an affiliation there, which _had_ to be before Donna worked at DA or else Donna would've watched Alice herself, right?"

"What are you getting at, Mike?"

He doesn't answer immediately. He leans back in his seat and runs a hand through his hair, maddened by the growing complexity of the situation. It's a web and all these paths lead somewhere focal, he just has to find the link.

"I'm not sure," he admits. "But whatever this is, I don't think it's good."

V

Donna finds Harvey alone in the break room, shirtless and turned away from her, scrubbing at something in the sink. The bare expanse of his back is more than she's seen of him in years. She takes it in, admiring his strong shoulders, the way his body tapers, broad up top, narrow at the waist, even the rich, slightly tanned color of his skin. Having not slept properly since being subpoenaed, she's in a state of delirium, functioning in a haze, but this sight of him rouses something inside of her. She moves toward him, drawn in by pheromones.

Sensing her presence, Harvey turns, his brown eyes soft and solemn. He says, more resigned than bitter, "I should've known Rachel would go running to you."

"Louis, actually." She continues toward him, a marionette doll, someone else is pulling her strings. "Giddy that he can finally order a coffee maker that doesn't churn slop."

She hands him a clean shirt. He takes it, unamused, and quickly slips it on. She hadn't noticed earlier, but up close he looks unwell: pale, dark circles beneath his eyes, hair messy, three days' worth of stubble. It worries her. In all the years she's known him, she's never once seen him unshaven.

"When's the last time you slept?" She asks.

He fastens a few buttons before replying. "Last night."

She doubts this, but the way that he says it, with a note of finality, renders her silent on the subject.

He finishes with the buttons, tucks his shirttails into his pants and then looks at her, patiently sizing her up. She's supposed to be mad at him. He expects it. But frankly she doesn't have the gusto for it; that part of her has gone missing.

She won't deny being disappointed though, but her disappointment isn't solely in him. This game of almost-admitting-he-feels-something-then-running-away-like-she's-the-end-of-the-world is getting habitual. She's more disappointed in herself for letting him get too close, for kissing him back, for being so damn weak. Not to mention she spent the entire weekend staring at her ceiling, trying to _understand_ him, trying to figure out what _she_ could've done differently. Any excuse to love him with all her sad little heart, she'll sniff it out like an obedient dog.

He hangs his tie around his neck and asks, "Where's O'Brien?"

"You told me to get rid of him."

" _Goddamn it_." He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, and shakes his head. "What am I supposed to tell Louis when we lose IOE as a client?"

"That your head's shoved so far up your ass you couldn't be bothered to take a five minute meeting."

He glares at her, realizes she's not the enemy and resolves, shifting his glare down to his tie instead. Somehow he's managed to screw it up, tying a four-in-hand rather than a half-Winsor. She reaches up to help him and he jumps back. "I got it," he snaps.

He clearly doesn't have it. His frustrations are clouding his head, making him flustered; it just gets worse, eight-in-hand, wrinkled. She thinks of Alice struggling to learn how to tie her shoes. How she would lie on the floor and kick her feet in frustration and Donna would watch, anxiously fighting the impulse to intervene—

Pin pulled. The memory blast open inside Donna's head and overtakes her consciousness. Like a body thrown into a river, weighted with rocks, so many rocks, and still it surfaces, bloated.

VI

" _Mommy,_ please _," she begs. "I wanna go play."_

" _Not until your shoes are tied."_

 _Lying on her back on the hardwood floor, front and center, the kitchen spectacle, Alice lifts her legs straight up into the air and slams them down, laces bouncing. "But I can't do it!"_

" _Certainly not with that attitude," Donna says, forcing herself to hold her ground. "Now get up and I'll coach you through it."_

 _Jonathan stands beside her, like a shadow but heavier, evaluating the situation. She would have probably given in already if it weren't for him._

 _Alice continues to writher, flopping around like a fish on land. "I can't, I can't, I can't!"_

" _You know," Johnny says smoothly, "she wouldn't throw such a fit if you didn't baby her."_

 _Donna doesn't argue this. She is all give and lenient, it's in her nature, and she feels Alice is owed it, being a child who had to endure the horrors of cancer, who had to know so early on how cruel and indifferent the world is. She has to spoil her, it wouldn't be fair otherwise._

 _But of course, Jonathan, the cold and clever strategist, polarizes to compensate. She cares too much, so he cares very little._

 _Alice stops wailing. Her body lies still, overexerted, catching its breath. Molly creeps out from behind Donna's legs, sniffing her way over to the little redhead, her tail lowered but wagging. She licks the side of Alice's face and receives a happy giggle._

 _Eventually those big blue eyes fix themselves on Donna, searching for a wilted reaction. Dissatisfied by what she sees, Alice throws an angry pout. "You're mean," she tells her._

" _I could be meaner," Donna says._

" _Nuh-uh. You're the meanest Mommy there is."_

 _Donna lifts an eyebrow. "Is that so?"_

" _It is so. So so," she says, singsong. "Right, Molly? Mommy's a big ol' meanie."_

 _Jonathan shakes his head, displeased by Alice's childish antics – to him she may as well be sixteen rolling on the floor instead of six._

" _Just let her go," he says._

" _You want me to cave?"_

" _No. Leave them untied. She'll trip on the strings and that'll teach her."_

" _And scrape a knee or break a wrist."_

" _Some lessons are learned the hard way." He shrugs. "That's life._ C'est la vie _. You can't keep denying her it. She's in remission, Dee – she'll live to be a hundred. If you fight all of her battles for her, she'll never learn how to fight them on her own. You'll handicap her."_

 _There_ _'s a brief moment where Donna feels like rounding on Jonathan, saying something desperate in her exasperation like, "I'm Mom here, not you!" But she reminds herself that it's not his fault. He doesn't know what it's like to be six. He's only going off what he knows, how he was raised; born in a three-piece, an adult out of the womb._

 _She turns her attention back to Alice._ _"I'm going to count to three," she warns, "and if those laces aren't being tied, you can forget the park."_

 _Alice groans._ _Any time Donna speaks with even a trace amount of discipline it causes her physical pain. Like she can literally feel the words stabbing her overinflated six-year-old ego._

" _One," Donna begins._

 _Alice stares her mother down and slowly kicks the right shoe off. Donna thinks,_ the nerve of this child _._

" _Two."_

 _The left plops onto the hardwood. She wiggles her socked feet, grinning manically at her own defiance. Donna watches with amazement, admiration, and a hint of nervousness._ If she's like this now, what will she be like at fifteen?

 _Donna looks at Jonathan, panic-stricken. He shakes his head:_ nope, you dug this hole, you deal with it.

 _Donna skips three and lunges for her, but Alice is quick. She jumps up off the floor and bolts out of the kitchen, Molly barking at her heels. Donna charges after her, one stride to Alice's three. They turn into the living room and Alice dives behind the couch. Falling to her knees, Donna reaches for the lining of her daughter's jeans and pulls._

 _Alice slides out of hiding shrieking with laughter. Donna pins her to the floor and attacks her vulnerable belly with tickles. "Tell me, baby, who's the meanest Mommy there is?"_

 _Alice squeals and thrashes. "Stop it! Please, Mom, please! I'll pee."_

 _Unable to help herself, Donna giggles with her. "Are you sorry?"_

" _Yes!"_

 _She stops the tickle torture and stares down at her daughter. Alice is limp with surrender, her blue eyes searching. She takes Donna's face into her small hands and pulls her in until they are nose to nose, looking at each other cross-eyed._

" _Do you still love me?" Alice asks quietly._

" _With every piece of me," Donna says._

 _Alice's eyes brim with tears. "Even though I'm bad and I don't know how to tie shoes?"_

 _Donna smiles, pulling her daughter up off the floor and into her arms. Alice hugs her around the neck and begins to cry, sharp, little hiccups Donna feels in her own chest. "You could burn the whole world down, never tie a single shoe and I'd still love you."_

 _Alice pulls back to look at her mother, her blue eyes gleam bright. "Why do you get mad then?"_

" _Because you're a good girl, not a bad one, and I know you're capable of tying your own shoes."_

" _But it's so hard."_

" _Most things are," Donna tells her. "You just have to practice, like with hockey."_

" _But I like hockey. I don't like shoes. They make my feet closetphobic."_

 _Donna smiles. "I didn't like shoes when I was your age either. But Nana always told me that a lady must wear shoes in public or else risk looking indecent…and anything less than a four-inch heel isn't a heel, it's an excuse."_

 _Alice tilts her head. "Huh?"_

" _I don't know. She's old as dirt, you just respect it."_

 _They both laugh and the moment is so perfect that Donna allows herself to believe in its permanence. She lets go of the perpetual worry that the cancer might come back, tells herself this isn't borrowed time, this is forever._

 _Donna carries Alice back into the kitchen, and beneath Jonathan's disapproving gaze the two of them loop and unloop bunny ears until Alice has tied both shoes herself._

" _Daddy look!" Alice shouts, clicking her laced converse at him. "I did it!"_

 _Jonathan reaches down and gives Alice an awkward pat on the head, like she's someone else's dog. "Good job."_

Good, not great.

Not I'm proud of you.

 _Alice beams up at Jonathan, gracious for the lousy pat, the cheap words. Donna can't stand to see it, but she'd be a hypocrite to say she's any different, because when he turns and affords her a quick peck on the cheek, she can't help but flush with pleasure._

 _Always so eager to please._

VII

Donna can see Alice, vivid as Harvey standing before her, can hear her sweet voice, "Do you still love me?" Her little fingers are tracing the freckles on Donna's arms and she smiling and laughing and then—

She's gone.

Her voice, her touch, her smell. Her freckled nose and wide-open smile. That unruly hair that Donna had to fight every morning to brush. Her grass stains and skinned knees and unfailing way of staining every dress she ever owned. Gone. All of her.

Donna feels like she's been kicked in the chest. She leans against the granite island, her body in dire need of the support. The haze clouding her emotions turns smoke-like, it expands, pushing beneath her skin, unable to permeate. She's suffocating inside of herself, choking on a past that no longer belongs to her.

Harvey continues messing with his tie, oblivious to the fact that she's all but turning blue in front of him.

He sighs and stops struggling, his shoulders slumping. "I can't do this, Donna."

She breathes, a conscious in and out, watches her chest rise and fall, tells herself: _I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm okay._

Her puppet strings tug, jerking her toward him. She takes his tie and dexterously works out the knot. _I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm okay._

He says, "I'm not Jessica."

"No, you're not." She swears her voice belongs to someone else. "You're Harvey. And you're neither a whiner nor a quitter. Now knock it off."

Harvey's integrity and her are rarely on opposite sides; realizing this, he forfeits. "Should I call up O'Brien and grovel?"

"There's no need. He's still in the conference room."

"What?"

Another string lifts, her eyebrow goes up. "You really think I let him leave?"

Understanding breaks across Harvey's face. The corners of his lips turn up in a grudging smile.

"I had a cheese platter sent up to hold him off, but Louis gorged on the habanero so I'm not sure how long we have."

"I thought Louis was lactose intolerant?"

Donna sighs. "That's another thing. Don't go into the men's room."

"That bad, huh?"

"Diabolical. Occupational safety called and said they're going to quarantine the entire floor."

Harvey laughs softly, his face lifted by a wide, handsome grin. And _god,_ this smile makes the whole world seem brighter; she swears it cuts her strings, clears the smoke. Suddenly she feels too much, everything all at once. It's disorienting. She has to turn away.

"Donna, wait."

She shuts her eyes. She's trying so hard to learn how to say no to him. But of course she turns back, waits, all but wags her damn tail.

"I feel like you're distant."

"I'm just tired."

"Do you need a day?"

"No. I'm okay."

He watches her face, waiting for hints, like he has no idea that all she's thinking about – all she ever thinks about – is how she wishes he would just take her into his arms.

He doesn't, but he does surprise her. He reaches out, a distance that seems immeasurably vast, and takes her hand. His touch scalds and soothes, she wants him to cling and let go. _This isn't healthy. This can't be healthy._

"I know I should apologize for kissing you," he says gently, "but I'm not sorry I did it."

She restrains a wince. It's as if him speaking about their kiss violates the terms they arrived at in secret.

"Then why did you leave?" she asks.

"Why did you pull away?" he counters, evading, always an attorney first.

"Because where would we be if I hadn't?"

She holds his gaze, not letting him look away. She can see his mind working, imagining what it would be like without the layers of excuses between them — to have it all out in the open. Do they get together? Have a relationship? Her, more broken than whole, him, so cynical he may never be ready to commit. What chance could they ever have?

It's a beautiful idea, but too delicate to ever be anything more than that. And she's always understood this; it's why she implemented her rule, why she so vehemently pushed him toward Scottie and Zoe. She torched bridge after bridge to avoid this very situation.

A heavy, significant silence falls over them. Harvey stares down at their entwined hands, thumb idly brushing against her skin. She wishes she had the strength to pull away.

At last, he says, "I dream about you," hesitantly, as if confessing to a sin. "Almost every night. It's this reoccurring, formulaic dream where I have you and I lose you. Any scenario there is for you leaving me, I've lived it." He looks up, pauses to search her eyes. Receiving nothing more than a blank stare, he continues on, "I'd wake up and I'd think _thank god_ , it's only a dream, but lately I wake up and I reach for you, expecting you to be there and you're not. You never were. And I don't know which is worse anymore."

She shakes her head. "Harvey—"

He cuts her off. "I don't know where we'd be if I stayed, if you hadn't pulled away. But I do know I would've woken up next to you, and I'm starting to think having that, even if it's temporary, is better than a lifetime of what-if."

And suddenly she feels panic. Like being on a rollercoaster, at the peak and staring down, realizing with a twist of nausea that you misjudged the plunge. It's a mixture of terror and a suffocating sense of certainty. He was supposed to be inaccessible, always just outside her reach, and it hurts, but it's an ache she's used to. She's grown comfortable with it, maybe even fond. Because how convenient is it to love a man who will never love you back when you're scared of moving on with your life? You can be forty years old and a shuttering pause and no one would question it – not even yourself.

"You're just tired," she says. It's all she dares, anymore and he might hear the tremble in her voice.

He looks at her – lost, wounded. The small muscles in his jaw clench, he swallows thickly. She can tell he's struggling for composure and it goes against every instinct she has not to comfort him.

She removes her hand from his. "Come on. O'Brien's waiting." He doesn't move. She turns and begins to walk away. Then, at her back—

"You told me I was afraid to risk anything."

She pauses with her hand on the door. Holds her breath. She can't bear to look at him.

"Now here I am, trying to take a step forward and you're the one running."

Donna shuts her eyes and pushes through the doorway. Each step she takes away from him is like wading against the tide, but at the very same time she feels like she can't get away quick enough, frightened that if she doesn't keep moving forward, she'll be pulled in and drown.

In Gucci kitten heels she practically sprints through the firm. Passing Harvey's old office, Donna catches sight of something in her peripheral and stops dead in her tracks. Cool gray eyes anchors to hers, grip her like a noose thrown around the neck.

Suddenly Harvey is far away, unimportant. Because somehow the past and the present have superimposed, and she stands staring into the face of her ex-husband.

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for reading! And I apologize for the wait, Darvey fam - although, admittedly, it could have been a while longer if it wasn't for the wonderful miieh_ and her encouragements.**

Reviews are cherished and greatly appreciated (even if it's just to tell me I'm mean).


	13. Rabbit Hole

**A/N: For clarity, the second flashback is 6 months after Alice passed away and the same day as Donna's flashback in the garden from a few chapters back.**

I

 _Jonathan Martell stands at the railing of a wide balcony, overlooking the Edison Ballroom. Below him, hundreds of Duke-Sanger employees dine and dance, celebrating a prosperous end to the fiscal year. The place is uncomfortably warm, but up high there is an artificial breeze that cools the sweat prickling across his forehead._

 _At the center of the hall he catches sight of his wife_ _'s vibrant red hair, in amongst a large group of shareholders. Always the fulcrum, Donna, with her intricate gestures and charismatic and theatrical way with words, people flock to her at any event. He'd call her the life of the party if not for his other redhead, radiant as her mother, leading the conga line out on the dance floor._

 _Donna must feel the weight of Jonathan_ _'s gaze, because her entrancing dark eyes flick upward, appraising him. He takes in her slender, gorgeous figure, draped in a dress of ethereal green, the neckline plunging in a way that causes something to stir inside of him – a physical need, as furious and persistent as when they were teenagers. Her red lips lift in a sultry, knowing smile. He clutches his chest, mock struck by her affection. Her smile widens and steals his breath._

" _Your wife won't be suspicious," Melanie Zegareli says at Jonathan's back, "with me dragging you away from the party like this?" The tall, blond-haired CEO of Duke-Sanger sits at a couch in the center of the loft, long legs crossed, hands clasped in her lap. The low lighting in the room makes her look appropriately menacing. "She might assume we're having an affair."_

" _That's a bit ambitious," Jonathan says, turning to her. He leans against the balcony railing and sips his bourbon._

" _Ambitious?" The CEO cocks an eyebrow. "I didn't realize you had the disability of an ego, Jonathan."_

" _I wouldn't call it egotism."_

 _Mel smiles._ _"Devotion, then? How_ rare. _But of course, every man has his price._ _"_

 _Jonathan envisions his wife, strutting around with that wonderful cleavage and sexy smile. Invaluable. Although_ _…now that he's thinking about it, he can't say when the last time they actually had_ proper _sex was. The kid almost seems to have radar for it. Just when they_ _'re about to go at it, Alice is at the door because she can't sleep and of course Dee relents – gleefully almost. Deliriously in love with the child, whenever Alice is present he is pushed out, second rate, the chief spot in his wife's mind stolen from him. He wonders if it's natural to feel jealous of your own kid. Probably not._

" _And every woman has her costs," he mutters._

 _The CEO laughs, rich and genuine._ _"I've always admired your directness," she says. "It's why, despite your youth, I voted for you. And I must say, you've done well. We've made more profit this year than the last five combined."_

" _I can hardly take credit for that." Jonathan moves away from the balcony and further into the dark room. "I'm merely a pawn, pushed by our greedy shareholders to sign along their dotted lines."_

 _Mel leans forward, inspecting Jonathan as if deciding whether or not to take offense._ _"Be that as it may," she says, settling back, "you deserve to be rewarded."_

 _Jonathan unbuttons his suit jacket and collapses into the chair across from her. He waits with a lack of intrigue that would normally cause the business woman a great deal of annoyance. Tonight, however, her self-satisfied smirk doesn_ _'t waiver._

 _At last, she says,_ _"We've decided to promote your wife to COO."_

 _Jonathan_ _'s face sets, his stare goes cold. "That's nepotism."_

 _Mel shrugs._ _"A risk we're willing to take to show Donna the recognition she deserves."_

" _You say you admire directness, and here you are feeding me bullshit." He places his drink on the table beside him, the gesture, deliberately casual. The threat to his wife unnerves him, but other than the bead of sweat trickling down the side of his face, he gives nothing away. It is stoicism beat into him by the military. Ex-soldier turned office boy, he almost_ craves _a good battle._ _"You want to implicate her."_

 _Mel folds her arms, still smiling._ _"Can you blame me? As a woman who's been twice divorced, I can say that lovers do like to drag each other in their quarrels. I know you've told her about our friends in India and we can't risk a rat."_

" _Donna wouldn't—"_

" _I don't give a shit what Donna would or wouldn't do," she says. "People are inherently unpredictable. A callous, practical man such as yourself must see the necessity here. This is for the good of the company."_

" _And if she refuses, what then?"_

" _Then you resign."_

 _He nods._ _"No sense of morality, I see."_

" _Oh, don't pretend you're any better. I know what you did to secure your position as chairman."_

" _And still, you voted for me."_

" _Of course. Power and information are relevant and you showed a full hand of both." She tilts her head, examining him carefully. "Now, Donna has information. Why not power too?"_

" _This isn't power you're offering, it's a prison sentence."_

" _Only if we get caught."_

" _I suppose that's one way to look at it," Jonathan says, standing. "In any case, I think we can agree this meeting serves no further purpose."_

 _Mel_ _'s smile falters. He can tell his inability to be cowed makes her uneasy. It wasn't just his directness she voted for, it was the idea that he could be manipulated. She put him into power thinking his desperate need to protect his family would make him weak, when in reality it makes him savage and ruthless._

 _Mel follows Jonathan to the staircase. At the base of the steps, Alice sits with her back to them, staring out at the dance floor, conga line moving along without her. Jonathan feels a prick of sadness; any normal, healthy six year old would be running wild, yet here his daughter sits, calm and politely restrained. He tells himself she_ _'s just tired, but knows she's still too ill to keep up._

" _Such a doll," Mel says, eyeing the little redhead. "Is she doing well? I noticed she still has her chemo port - last I heard she was in remission."_

" _Maintenance therapy."_

" _Ah." Mel nods. "Well, thank god for our health benefits, right? The out of pocket costs of therapies must be a fortune." Her eyes slide over and fix on him. "As I understand it, your dishonorable discharge makes it so you can't receive government assistance or bank loans - can you imagine how_ arduous _it would be if you weren_ _'t_ _employed?_ _"_

 _Jonathan makes a fist, burying his nails into his palm. The anger is a strange sensation. It_ _'s not often he lets things get under his skin, but the discharged soldier dig is a particularly sore spot._

" _Anyway," Mel continues, putting a hand on his upper arm, drawing it down. It's a casual touch, but there's this edge of possessiveness to it that makes his skin crawl. "I hope you will share what we discussed with your wife."_

 _She turns and disappears back into the loft._

 _Jonathan sets his jaw against the anger coursing through him and descends the steps, worried that if he hesitates another moment he may give into the urge to shove her over the balcony. He stops at the step Alice is perched on and regards the child silently._

 _Alice looks up at him and smiles. With her red hair and light dusting of freckles, she is the spitting image of her mother. Considering all of Jonathan_ _'s flaws, it's hard for him to believe that something this beautiful and innocent could be made up of part of him. It feels wrong being her father, has always felt wrong, from the moment he first held her in his arms the wrongness set in, like his hands were too rough, too corrupt to be touching such soft skin._

 _Jonathan forces himself to smile back and sits down on the step beside Alice._

" _What are you up to?" he asks._

" _Forty inches," she says, grinning. The ongoing joke. A few months back, Donna had mentioned over dinner how she wanted more romance out of him – prose about her beauty, Shakespeare quoted to her over morning coffee. Jonathan said he didn't like to speak in a way that transcended literal interpretation and now her and the kid go out of their way to give him a hard time about it._

 _He must look unamused because she offers quickly,_ _"I'm waiting for Mom. She said she'd be over in a second to watch my cool dance move, but it's been forever. A billion seconds at least."_

" _I find that hard to believe," Jonathan tells her. "A billion seconds is roughly 32 years and you don't look a day over five."_

 _Alice scrunches her nose up, suppressing a smile._ _"I age good," she says, plucking his pocket square out of his chest pocket. She lays her head against him and unfolds the piece of silk._

 _Silence falls over them. Jonathan stares at his hands, trying to come up with something to talk to the kid about. He_ _'s never been one for casual conversation – words, his father told him, should always serve a purpose, and what use is there speaking to a child?_

 _Thankfully it isn_ _'t long until Donna notices the two of them sitting there miserably. She scoops the kid up, who'd fallen asleep in Jonathan's sobering silence, and the three of them leave out the back doors in an attempt to dodge the long goodbyes._

 _Later, inside their bedroom, Jonathan watches Donna take her jewelry off in front of the wardrobe. Normally after a party she_ _'d talk and talk, animating for him, with faces and voices, scenes he'd missed out on, but tonight she's unnaturally quiet._

" _Something bugging you?" he asks, sliding out of his suit jacket._

" _She's pretty."_

" _Who?"_

" _Melanie."_

 _Jonathan folds the jacket in half and drops it on the bed._ _"Is she?"_

" _Very much so."_

 _He meets Donna_ _'s gaze through the mirror. "Is this your subtle way of asking me if I'm sleeping with her?"_

" _Are you?"_

" _No."_

 _She casts her eyes down and fixes them on the dresser._ _"I know it's petty. It's just…I wouldn't blame you, I guess."_

" _Where's this coming from."_

" _I've neglected you."_

 _Jonathan sighs._ _"Donna…"_

" _I should have made more time for us."_

" _And I should have sat longer at Alice's bedside or took her to at least one of those infusion treatments. We did what we did, honey."_

 _He goes to her. He gently takes the earrings she_ _'s grasping and sets them on the dresser, then helps her unzip her dress, pushing it off her shoulders. It falls to the floor in a heap._

 _He tips her chin up and looks into her eyes._

" _There is no other woman," he says softly. "There will_ never _be another woman. You_ _'re it for me."_

 _She smiles at him, almost shyly, and god, all these years together and his stomach still flips. He grabs her by the waist and lifts her onto the dresser. She hooks her hand around his neck and pulls him into a kiss, slow and deep. His palms ride up her thighs, all the way to the crease between her legs. His thumb strokes gently over the already damp cotton._

 _He pulls away and fixes her with a look._

" _Oh, for god's sake. You're in bespoke Brioni - how could I_ not _be turned on?_ _"_

 _Jonathan grins, thumb rubbing a little firmer. She closes her eyes and bites her lip, fingers digging into his shoulders._

" _What did you think of my speech?" he murmurs, breath tickling the skin just below her ear._

" _Empowering." She leans back to look at him, suddenly serious. "I'm always proud to be your wife, but tonight especially."_

 _The words stab into him. His fingers freeze. He can only stare at her._

" _Jonathan…" She says, sounding concerned. "What is it?"_

 _He sighs and reluctantly lets go of her._ _"Mel—"_

" _It's okay," she cuts in. "You're right. We did what we did. Let's just focus on rebuilding."_

" _No_ , Jesus _. Dee, listen. Mel wants to promote you to COO._ _"_

" _I…what?" Donna looks at him with a frown, as if she thinks she hasn't heard him correctly._

" _They're assuming I told you about the investment we've made in India. You're a liability to the company. Promoting you to COO incriminates you—"_

" _And keeps me from talking," she says quietly._

 _He slumps down on the bed across from her._ _"I have to resign. There's no other choice. We'll go back to Connecticut—"_

" _And then what?" She looks down at him, face firm – perched half-naked on a dresser and still his wife somehow exudes control. "We've been down this road, Johnny. Even if you could get a job with your record, Alice's doctors are here. Her school is here. I can't…" She shakes her head. "I_ won't _do to her what my parents did to me – uproot her and force her into another life. It wouldn_ _'t be fair."_

" _Life is hardly fair, Donna."_

" _Don't you think_ _she knows that better than anyone?_ _" She slides off the dresser to stand in front of him. "I won't put her through anymore hardship, Jonathan. I won't."_

" _And both her parents winding up in prison, what do you think that'll do to her?"_

" _Do you have any idea how long it takes to secure a conviction in a federal prosecution? Discovery alone could take years, then there's impartiality challenges, technical errors, appeals, extenuating circumstances. Alice could be eighteen by the time we're charged with anything, and that's if the SEC is quick to find us out."_

 _Suddenly it hits him, she_ knew _this was coming. Her sleepless nights have been spent planning their next tragedy, preparing for the hit while aiming her next swing._

 _Donna crosses the room, pacing, eyes bright, color high, full of nervous energy. Jonathan watches with amazement, finding himself feeling foolish for wanting to protect her. His wife is_ _not some timid, fragile damsel. She is fiery, tough as a soldier and infuriatingly stubborn._

 _And of course, this is what he loves most about her._

" _Okay," he says._

 _She lifts a mildly surprised eyebrow._ _"Okay?"_

" _Okay." He grabs her by the hips and pulls her into his lap. "No point in fighting about it. I'll announce your promotion on Monday."_

 _Her dark eyes bore into his, searching for something, hesitation maybe. Like she expects him to take it back._ _"COO…" she whispers._

 _He smirks at her. She grins back._

God help us.

II

Rachel apprehensively looks over Mike's research, flipping past page after page of meeting minutes, memorandums, and contracts with foreign corporate clients, all signed by Chief Operating Officer, Donna Martell.

First a mother, now _this_? She feels dizzy – her best friend for years and somehow these colossal details have slipped through the cracks.

"It can't be a coincidence," Mike says from his desk. "The district attorney must've had something on her – damning evidence, probably – and she used Harvey to get a foot in so she could bury it."

Rachel's mouth falls open at the accusation. She shakes her head. "Mike, this is _Donna_. She wouldn't do that."

"Are you sure?" Mike pins her with his eyes. Rachel fights the urge to step back, feeling like a shoddy witness on the stands. "We clearly have no idea who Donnaeven _is_ , least of all what she's capable of."

"How can you say that?" Rachel glares at him, outraged. "If there's one thing about Donna we can be certain about, it's her loyalty to Harvey."

Mike nods. "Sure – but why is she so loyal?"

The question puts Rachel off guard. "Because…"

 _Because… Because_ _…_

"Because she's guilty," he concludes, standing. "C'mon Rach, you have to admit it makes sense. What else could justify blind loyalty other than a guilty conscience?"

" _Love_ ," she argues, feeling stubborn.

"I think," Mike says slowly, "that if she loved him that much she wouldn't have kept so many secrets from him."

Mike steps around his desk and Rachel moves to block his exit.

"Mike, _please_ …" she begs.

Her fiancé's eyes soften, and she doesn't have to finish her statement because he knows what she's asking. _Please, don_ _'t go to Harvey._

"I told you, I can't—" Mike freezes.

Rachel peeks cautiously over her shoulder. There is a man standing in the door, tall in an imposing sort of way, with dark hair and almost colorless gray eyes. He is statuesquely handsome – strong jaw, high cheekbones, full lips – but there is something about him, a dark brooding intensity maybe, or perhaps it's those eyes, how they seem to look through Rachel, giving her the eerie sense of blindness.

She steps back, crashing into Mike.

"Hate to interrupt," the man says. "But I need to speak to Harvey. Do you mind fetching him for me?"

"Couldn't have called?" Mike says, his voice oddly clipped.

"I wasn't aware you boys knew how to use a phone, considering how often you show up to places uninvited."

Mike snorts. "Funny, wasn't it you knocking at my door at three in the morning?"

Finally, it clicks. _Jonathan Martell._

 _Donna_ _'s ex-husband._

"It was two as I recall it. But I'm not the one with an eidetic memory, am I?"

Jonathan steps further into the office. Stiff-backed and commanding, he has an air of authority about him that has Rachel instinctively stepping out of his way.

Mike watches him carefully, rigid, as if the man is a wild animal idly stalking him. "What do you want?"

"I believe I already answered this question," Jonathan says mildly.

"Harvey's busy."

Jonathan narrows his eyes, irritated, but the expression is brief and gone within an instant. "As he should be," he says. "Managing partner of such a prestigious law firm. Was that Matt O'Brien I ran into in the elevator? Said Harvey invited him to renegotiate his contract and then stood him up. What _tact_. Then you've got that Litt fellow, screaming in the face of those poor associates in the hall. The very definition of professionalism. I am humbled to be here. Truly."

"You don't have to be so modest," Mike says, smiling derisively. "With Duke-Sanger's 96 counts of fraud, money laundering, insider trading, and conspiracy, your leadership as board chairman is the stuff of legend."

Jonathan shakes his head – angry? amused? – and doesn't say anything, just stares with that opaque, detached look in his eyes.

Then something catches his attention. His stiff expression softens into something like vague curiosity.

Rachel and Mike both turn and there, standing in the doorway, looking surprisingly composed is Donna. Behind her, the opposite of calm, comes Harvey, his eyes intent on Jonathan. Furious like Rachel's never seen him.

Mike reaches out quickly and pulls Rachel behind him.

III

 _The last witness is sworn in. Hand over bible, and still the man lies beautifully – not that it matters, because Jonathan Martell has ensured the jury will vote accordingly. It almost seems a shame because the prosecutor, Donna's white knight and Cameron Dennis' cocky ADA, Harvey Spector, is_ good. _It's likely he would have won the case without all the jury and witness tampering, but Jonathan couldn't risk it. Not with his wife's sanity on the line; if Brandon Russo doesn't end up in prison, he's worried Donna might snap and gun the guy down._

 _If she ever leaves the house, that is._

 _Jonathan's phone buzzes in his pocket. He gets up and leaves the courtroom. He sees his mother-in-law's name on the caller ID and lets out a heavy sigh._

 _He picks up. "Yes?"_

 _He expects a refined voice, polite with a hint of disdainful superiority, but is greeted by something high and helpless. "Jonathan. Where's Donna?"_

" _Donna? She's at home."_

" _With you?"_

" _No, I'm –" He pauses. Something is wrong, he can feel it, and he's already running out of the courthouse. "Sandra, what's going on?"_

" _She_ called _me, Johnny. She called me and she was saying all of these things. Talking about how she never felt closer to me than when we lived in the apartment in Wethersfield, and…_ Jesus _, I don't know. It just…it made me worried."_

" _The psychiatrist changed one of her antidepressants recently. Maybe sentimentalism is a side effect."_

" _She told me she_ loves _me, that she should have said it more, that she's sorry for being mad at me for divorcing Jim." And this of all things, her ex-husbands name, sets her to crying. "This is not her being sentimental, Jonathan. She's unstable."_

 _He can't argue with her reasoning. Sandra is one of those born rich, married rich types. After Donna's father lost all of the family's money, she callously divorced him, but didn't quite factor in the fact she'd have to support herself. Donna picked up the slack, got a job, paid the bills, became the responsible adult, and because of this there's always been this air of bitterness between them._

 _Donna wouldn't just phone up her mother out of the blue and start apologizing for her teenage behaviors._

 _An undefined panic beginning to set in. "I'll go check on her," he says._

 _He doesn't wait for his mother-in-law to respond. He hangs up, rushes into the intersection and runs down the first cab he sees._

 _He calls Donna four times on the way. She doesn't answer. And the traffic crawls. The heavy snowfall has caused gridlocked backups. He sits at the same light for four rotations before jumping out of the taxi and jogging the rest of the way. Lower Manhattan to Tribeca, fifteen blocks in a snow storm, his old sergeant would be proud._

 _By the time he reaches the flat he is winded and soaking wet. He thinks of what Donna will say when he gets in, how she'll chastise him for ruining his suit, but still help him out of it. He'll apologize, he decides, straight away, he'll tell her how sorry he is for being so hard on her this morning. He'll tell her she never has to leave the house if that's not what she wants. He won't push her anymore. He'll respect her grief._

 _But when he opens the door the flat is dark and quiet, and Molly is waiting by the entry as if no one's home._

 _Jonathan runs up the stairs shouting Donna's name and gets no response. He turns for their bedroom, but notices Alice's door is open at the end of the hall. She hasn't gone in there, not since the kid died. She said she couldn't stomach it..._

 _He creeps to the open door. "Donna?" he says, barely above a whisper. His heart is hammering like mad. He finds himself wondering how he's going to find her. Hanging from the closet? Overdosed on the bed? Wrists slit in the tub? He swallows down the panic, the grotesque images, and steps inside the room._

 _Empty._

 _And their bedroom is empty, as is the living room and the kitchen._

 _Numb, Jonathan sinks down onto the couch, pulls out his phone and calls the police._

IV

Never has Jonathan's composure been more of an effort than the moment he sees her. _Donna_ , standing right in front of him. Within reaching distance.

 _Thirteen years._

She is the same. Tall, amber hair, captivating dark eyes…stunning. It's surreal. The equivalent of his daughter strutting through the doorway. He all but buried this woman, yet here she is, living this completely separate life as if he and Alice never happened.

A _new_ Donna, who has tricked herself into believing that the past could never touch her here. He can read it in her face, the paleness, the inward concentration. This is down the rabbit hole, and he thinks for a moment she might crack—

Then she steps forward.

The gap closes. Audaciously she treads passed years of separation and estrangement, conquering the immense mountain of resentment stacked between them by simply crossing the office.

She does not hesitate. She reaches out, reaches into Jonathan's personal space and then fiercely beyond it. Her body collides against his, pulling him into a tight embrace, and he is shocked by how impossibly _real_ she feels, as if instead of skin and bone he'd expected a ghostly fog. He succumbs to it, wraps his arms around her, lets her warmth saturate him and momentarily fill the echoing hollowness being without her has instilled within him.

"It's good to see you," she whispers.

 _God,_ he's missed her voice. He didn't even realize how much until now.

He nods slowly at the statement– not an adequate response but, for the moment, the most he can manage – and forces himself to let go of her. "Are you holding up okay?" he asks, stepping away. Probably further away than necessary, probably far enough to be awkward, but keeping firm is his only defense and he can't do that with her so close.

She takes in a deep breath and exhales with a shrug of her shoulders. "I've held up through worse," she says.

"That's not an answer."

"It's the best I can give." She tries to smile, but her eyes…makeup can't hide the exhaustion. She hasn't been sleeping.

Someone clears their throat. Mike, Jonathan thinks, but his eyes go to Harvey. The attorney stands darkening the doorway with the width and immensity of a boxer, his scowl infiltrating the very air, filling it with an atmospheric heaviness like that which comes before a storm. His brown eyes lock on Jonathan's, practically _gleaming_ with hatred. "What are you doing here?" he asks.

 _Arrogant twat_. Jonathan would love nothing more than to punch him in the face, god knows he's spent years dreaming about it, but the man looks unwell – pale, tired, his tailored Tom Ford a little too large like he's lost weight. It wouldn't feel like a fair fight.

Moved by his own gallantry, Jonathan concedes. "Anita Gibb's witness," he says. "It's Melanie Zegareli."

Donna lets out a small gasp. Clearly this wasn't news she was expecting.

"And what exactly makes this woman a threat?" Harvey asks.

Jonathan sighs. "Have you even _looked_ at Donna's case?"

The attorney glares off the remark, and his young partner offers in his stead: "She's the CEO of Duke-Sanger."

"Good," Jonathan says. "At least one of you is doing your job."

"I _get_ that," Harvey snaps. "What I don't understand is the risk she poses to Donna. This woman can't pin her with anything substantial. Donna had no real power as a secretary, even if she was your wife. Withholding information, destroying evidence, conspiracy – Ms. Zegareli faces the burden of proof and unless she has any _actual_ evidence, we'll argue it's all hearsay."

 _Poor fool._ Jonathan meets Donna's eyes. Her face is white, and as she stares at him she begins nervously fidgeting her hands. She thinks he's going to spill her secrets, and maybe part of her wishes he would, if only to spare herself the agony of it, but that's not his place.

Donna lets out a long, shaking breath. "Harvey, I wasn't…" She trails off, closes her eyes for a moment, distracted by the shame she must feel. Then she fixes her stare on the attorney, sets her face against the pain, and says it: "I was Duke-Sanger's COO."

Harvey goes very, very still. Jonathan can almost see the implications running through the man's head – that slap on the wrist he was already anxious about defending has become a guillotine.

"I know I lied," Donna says, hesitantly stepping toward him. "But how could I explain going from _that_ to this? You would have asked questions and I would have had to –"

"Actually tell the truth?" Harvey cuts in, his voice painfully furious. "Because god forbid you're fucking honest with me."

"Harvey, please," she whispers. "Just calm down –"

" _Calm down?_ " He yells. "Do you have _any_ idea how much trouble you're in?"

" _Yes_ ," she says, holding firm against Harvey's blazing gaze. "I know _exactly_ how much trouble I'm in. I did this. And I'll gladly sit in prison for the next five years knowing my crimes gave my daughter the best chance she had."

Harvey continues to glare at her, but there is a tenderness beginning to set in around his eyes and mouth – in love and hate, the man is practically splitting down the middle. It strange to feel sympathy for the person who stole your wife, Jonathan thinks, but the sympathy is there.

"I'm not asking you to defend me," Donna continues.

Harvey sighs. "No," he says, "but you know I will," and with that the man turns and stalks out. Humiliated.

Donna runs a hand through her hair, frazzled, watching the attorney's retreating figure. The dark haired girl standing quietly behind Mike Ross runs over to her and touches her shoulder gently. Donna recoils and shakes her head.

"Can Donna and I have a moment in private?" Jonathan asks.

The two attorneys share discomforted stares, then glance at Donna, who nods in silent approval.

Mike walks out, sending Jonathan a threatening look: _don't you_ dare _try anything,_ but the young woman lingers, hovering beside Donna, as if she fears leaving her friend alone.

"It's okay," Donna tells her softly. "I'll be okay."

The girl nods reluctantly and follows in Mike's wake, shutting the office door behind her as she goes.

With her hand still gripping her hair, Donna stares down at the carpet. She shuts her eyes, takes in a deep, therapeutic breath and straightens, composure momentarily restored.

She walks over to the chair Jonathan stands beside and settles down. Her dark gaze shifts upward in slow appraisal, taking him in from his wingtip brogues to his loose comb-over. She meets his eyes, the stare unexpectedly soft and concludes with a good-natured tsk, "You need a haircut."

Jonathan frowns. "What are you, my mother?"

"I thought it bothered you being long."

"It bothers me more having some stranger with scissors so near my throat. It's why I always had you cut it."

"I was more likely to slit your throat than a random hair dresser," she says mildly. "I think you're just cheap."

"Look at you, already the bitter ex-wife." Jonathan leans against the glass desk at his back. "A woman scorned. It suits you."

"Most things do."

He grins at her.

She tilts her head, studying him. "Is that an actual _smile_ on your face, Jonathan? Christ, you have dimples. Eight years of marriage and I had no idea."

Jonathan rolls his eyes, but he can't deny the emotion feeling strange on his face. It's been a long time since he last smiled. "Still an insufferable smart-ass, I see."

She hums. "I had to keep hold of some of the old charm."

He nods to that and a few seconds of silence pass.

Donna crosses her legs. Her high-heeled foot bounces nervously. "So Melanie," she says. "Are they offering her immunity?"

"A lesser sentence, I suspect."

"She's going to throw me to the wolves, isn't she?"

"It seems the most sensible strategy."

Donna nods slowly. "That's it, then," she says. "I'm going to prison."

Jonathan folds his arms, irritated by her resignation. "You will if you don't start being honest with your attorney."

"I'd rather not involve him," she says stubbornly.

"Why? You're afraid he won't love you when he finds out you're not the all-knowing saint you pretend to be?"

She glares up at him. "It's not about me."

"Isn't it?"

"Johnny, I had my hand dipped into an underworld half the time I was working with him – I mean, _Jesus_ , we blackmailed Cameron into giving him Russo, we tampered with the jury, coerced confessions..." She shakes her head, looking horrified by the weight of her own admissions. "Forget the fact that he won't want to defend me when he finds all this out, but he'll second guess every case he's ever won. It will _cripple_ him."

"The only thing that's crippling him is you," he tells her. "You think you're protecting him from the truth, but really you're robbing the man of his dignity."

" _Preserving_ his dignity."

"I think your definition of dignity is skewed." He stares down at her severely. "Did it even occur to you that he was the only one in the room surprised by you being COO? He _trusts_ you, Donna – blind, hopeless, desperate trust like I've never seen it. Now stop taking advantage of it and let him in."

Her lips part, but no reply comes. Jonathan walks to the window and looks out at the cityscape, giving her a moment to consider his words.

He didn't understand before, what compelled her to leave him for a purely professional relationship with another man, but he thinks he gets it now. Being Harvey's secretary gives her purpose. The years of devoting herself to Alice's needs stripped away her own wants and desires; it took her sense of self, and instead of trying to rediscover who she is, she's fallen into this supporting role. She is a woman of war, who's grown strong and resilient, but nobody taught her after the years and years of constant threats and psychological destruction how to rebuild and find peace.

Drained, Jonathan turns back around, and finds Donna crying.

The sight stuns him. She tries to cover it up, turning away and casting her eyes to the floor, but the crying continues on, breath after breath.

Jonathan begins to wish he were somewhere else. Almost anywhere else. He rather sit in prison for forty years, go back to the bunkers, IDF alarms blaring, have mortars and rockets shot at him, than have to endure these soft sobs.

"He's going to fire me," she whispers. "And then what will I do? Thirteen years. Thirteen _years_ and this is all I've been. A secretary."

"Then is being fired such a bad thing?" he asks in a subdued voice. "I don't know what you're looking for in life, or what you should be doing, but playing secretary for Harvey Specter for the next fifty years isn't it, surely?"

She looks at him and considers. A glint of reflexive anger sharpens her features. Then she relaxes and concludes, "No, I guess not. This was supposed to be temporary, a couple years, until Harvey went corporate, but it just…"

"Felt safe."

She nods. "Like a rock I get to hide under."

"Now here I am kicking it up. It must be hard for you, having to see me here." He told himself he wouldn't be bitter, but he can't seem to stop the hostility from oozing out of him.

"It is," she says, unbowed. Jonathan notices a stray tear streaming down her cheek and hands her his pocket square. She nods in thanks and dabs beneath her eyes before continuing. "You know me better than anyone, and there's a morbid sort of honesty in that, in being _seen,_ that I haven't had to face in a very long time."

This is what he is to her then, a grotesque symbol, a reminder of that darker version of herself. It saddens him that after everything they've been through, all the sacrifices they made together, that this is what he boils down to in her mind.

He shakes it off, and changes the subject back to the task at hand. "Melanie is going to use you as a scapegoat. There's a meeting, one which the accountants presented a detailed structure of our investments in Cyderkon. Mel was conveniently absent and you signed in her stead."

"Are you saying she planned this?"

"It's too brutally ingenious for it not to be premeditative. Think about it, Dee. I'm chairman, you're acting CEO, and together we give the go ahead to provide loans to a shady company overseas. And let's not forget our motive, the dying daughter. If this goes to trial, the jury will eat it up – we'll be seen as guilty simply for the drama of it."

Donna sags, looking suddenly exhausted. "I'm so sorry, Jonathan. If I hadn't –"

"Let's not dwell." He begins to inch toward the door. "Please, talk to Harvey. He's the best chance you have, but he can't defend you if he doesn't have all of the facts."

Her lips tighten and he thinks she's going to start arguing this again, but she nods instead.

He makes to leave, but stops at the door, a question burning just beneath the surface, a question he's asked himself over and over again for thirteen years and here she is, available to answer it.

 _Don't confront it._ He tells himself. _Just walk away. Let it go._

Jonathan turns back around and meets Donna's eyes. "How come you left the way you did?"

She regards him for an extended, tense moment. The silence is like a third presence, haunting. Then finally, she says, "How can you ask me that?"

"Because I have to see you here," Jonathan says, hating himself. "I have to look around and see you living this other life and after this, I'll have to go home, walk across that hideous 30,000 dollar rug you had to have, feed Alice's dog, stare at our family portraits, all the while wondering what the hell happened to us."

It takes a long time for her to reply. "I just couldn't do it anymore," she whispers. "It was too hard."

"So you fought like hell for Alice, but couldn't lift a finger for our marriage?"

"Jonathan…"

" _Am I wrong_?"

"I was grieving my daughter, how could I –"

"Our daughter," he snaps. " _Ours._ How fucking selfish can you be that you won't even acknowledge my loss?"

"I understand how it must have been –"

"No, Donna, you don't understand," he says coldly. "Because while you were out playing secretary with Harvey Specter, I was sitting at home waiting for the police to call and tell me they found your body in the Hudson. I thought you were _dead_. For two days all I could think about was how I just buried my daughter and now I have to bury my fucking wife. So don't you dare sit there and tell me you understand, because you don't."

"That's enough," a voice says at Jonathan's back.

Jonathan whirls around and finds Harvey staring him down, not with same hatred as before but a sad sort of distaste.

It is shocking then, the stark disgust Jonathan feels toward himself. It is all the shame of losing control, but none of the satisfaction.

He pushes past Harvey, almost hearing the firm's collective sigh as he makes his exit.

 **A/N: I apologize for this not being very Darvey centric (I promise the next installment will make up for that). I know it was a long wait and this probably falls short, but I had to push the plot forward in this one.**

 **All my thanks to those of you still sticking with this and for all of the thoughtful reviews on the last chapter.**


	14. Chaos Breeds Chaos

I

Harvey waits until Jonathan is gone. Then he turns to her, his secretary, this woman he's known for years, but never really knew _._

Ex-wife, bereaved mother, COO of the fourth largest financial institution in the nation.

Feeling his stare, Donna looks up at him, eyes red-rimmed, and says nothing. He can tell by the tightness of her lips and the intensity in her gaze that she is fighting fiercely to hold on to her composure.

Her silent suffering makes Harvey's chest tighten; a lump builds in his throat. What he's feeling has become too big for him, too confusing. It is bottled up chaos, inescapable and pressurized. The air around him almost vibrates with everything he's holding in.

Part of him is angry. No. That's too subtle – he's fucking furious. He has a frantic urge to smash everything in the room. But he doesn't, because mostly he's just heartbroken – not for himself, but for _her._ In light of what she's going through his own hurt seems insignificant, petty even. Really, all she did was lie…

A lie so big and so painful—

Goddamn it, he can't _breathe_.

"Harvey?" Donna stands up, and the way her brow creases in concern, he figures he must look like he's in agony. "Are you alright?"

"Am _I_ alright…?" Once again he has selfishly taken center stage, her feelings becoming second to his. It's not fair and he hates that with everything that's going on between them they still somehow fall into these roles, cling to them, as if acting any different is an admission that their relationship is falling to pieces. "Donna, I'm not the one facing prison."

Donna stares at him for a moment, her expression completely unreadable. "I just…" She sighs. "I've just been dreading this for so long. I guess almost feel relieved."

She must be saying this for his sake, because her voice—tired, utterly defeated—doesn't reflect relief. It worries him. She's keeping it together so well, but there has to be a breaking point. The memories, the guilt, the sadness, the isolation. No one is built to hold all that in.

But what choice does she have? She laid herself bare in front of him the other night and he just stared at her, dumbstruck with a distinct lack of words. He wants to make it all better, to be her hero (yes, it's cheesy as hell, but he does), yet at the same time, he's so afraid of hurting her more. He doesn't know where to begin to comfort her…or if she even wants him to.

All he can be is her attorney. He can't soothe her hurt, but he can defend her and try to fix this mess. He _has_ to.

"Donna, listen. I need to get my hands on any documents that might incriminate you, but I don't want to alert Gibbs to the fact that we know about Melanie. Do you have any connections left at Duke-Sanger that we can trust besides Jonathan?"

Donna looks off, bites her lip nervously.

"If it's too hard…"

"No." Her gaze flicks back to his, holds steady. "I can do this."

Despite everything, Harvey can't help but be proud of her. Proud of the fact that she's still standing tall and that she still has this. He sees her bravery and strength as immense and inspiring.

"Alright," he says. "Let me know if you need any help." He's trying for softness, hoping that she grasps that he means this in more than just the legal sense.

She nods and steps closer to him. The smell of her perfume assaults his senses, subduing him like a tranquilizer. He can feel his anger subsiding, skulking away, retiring back into a quiet, lingering bitterness – a bitterness that is beginning to become as much a part of him as his pulse.

And _god_ her eyes, normally dark, seem to almost fluoresce in the window light, reflecting flecks of gold and warm shades of green. A shiver creeps up Harvey's spine and spreads like wildfire through him. His heart skips, flickers, short-circuiting. It's as if suddenly every nerve in his body has decided to declare its love for her all at once.

 _Don't touch her. Don't touch her. Don't touch her._

 _Don't touch._

Harvey steels himself and steps out of the doorway.

Donna exits, giving him a strange look and a wide berth.

II

Mike and Rachel stand outside the firm's library, trying to digest Jonathan's surprise visit, when one of the accounting interns rushes passed, followed by about ten of the new associates.

Mike grabs at a suit, stopping a dark haired kid with wide, excited eyes. "What's the commotion?" he asks.

"CNN is doing an exposé on Sanger-gate."

Mike lifts an eyebrow. " _Sanger-gate_?"

The kid shrugs. "It's what they're calling it."

Mike lets go of the associate and turns to Rachel. He can almost feel her horror. _An exposé?_ This is not good.

They follow the crowd into the Bullpen and gather around a cubicle at the back. A video streams on dual computer monitors. A familiar looking news caster is saying _, "—fourth largest financial institution in America. Its vast profits credited to their ruthless chairman Jonathan Martell."_

It cuts to a middle-aged man in a checkered tie: _"Companies must operate on checks and balances, but people rarely questioned Martell's authority. No one stood up to him – the lawyers, the accountants, the bankers. No one said no."_

It cuts away again. An older man, white hair: _"Jonathan took New York by its throat. He played off Wall Streets greed and formed a network of synergistic corruption, but what people don't talk about and what no one realized at the time was that he was just a dog on a leash."_

Again, the scene changes, shifts to a picture of Jonathan and Donna at some event. They look young and happy, rich and powerful. In Donna's arms is a little girl, all freckles and red hair and a big mischievous grin. The kid is wearing a dress with sneakers. Black and white chucks. Mike has a pair just like them, and it's this small, insignificant detail that brings Alice to life in his mind, and in that very same breath she is taken away from him. The grief he feels is soul crushing.

Mike reaches for Rachel, who simultaneously reaches for him. They take each other's hands and cling white-knuckle tight.

The reporter voice-overs: _"Shortly after Martell was voted chairman, Duke-Sanger's chief operating officer, Larry Angstrom, retired, and the board of directors quietly and unanimously voted Jonathan's wife, twenty-four year old, Donna Martell, into the executive position."_

In the Bullpen, someone gasps. "Holy shit, that's Donna!"

Again the video changes scenes, back to Checkered Tie: _"We were stunned when they announced her promotion."_

Old guy: _"It was bad business."_

A dark haired woman: _"Our stocks plummeted."_

It becomes such a whirlwind, Mike loses track of who's speaking, immersed in the shifting narrative.

" _It didn't make sense. Martell is a calculated, brutal businessman. I thought, 'he should know better.'"_

" _She came in as COO and she was…"_

" _Perfect."_

" _Young, brilliant, captivating, edgy."_

" _She had all the class, grace and poise for the position, but also this surprising forcefulness, an unyielding determination that made you believe she could accomplish anything. People were fascinated by her."_

" _Together, the Martell's were unstoppable."_

" _A true power couple; where Jonathan was feared, Donna was loved."_

" _The stock jumped back up."_

" _Shot up."_

" _Soared."_

" _They were making everyone rich."_

" _And then…"_

The voices go quiet, the background music ceases. A clip plays, a dramatic reenactment of a suited man and a redheaded woman placing roses on a fresh grave. Mike feels sick. He shouts, "Turn it off, _"_ in a voice that is too hoarse and pained to be his.

" _Their daughter died."_

" _I remember the funeral."_

He shoves through the crowd of associates, grabs the guy sitting at the computer by the back of his collar and yanks him back.

" _I used to think of grief as something abstract—"_

The associate and his chair topple to the floor.

" _-now I forever see it as this young redhead, standing in front of a coffin that is just too damn small."_

Mike leaps over the guy's sprawled body and rushes to click out of the video stream, but Harvey is there first. The managing partner rips the power cords from the outlet in one impressive tug.

The firm falls silent. It is a quiet that is so complete Mike's frantic heartbeat is probably the loudest sound in the room.

Mike looks over at Harvey, who is looking behind him, ghost white. He follows Harvey's gaze and sees Donna, lingering at the edge of the Bullpen.

There are no words to accurately describe her expression. It's some kind of nightmarish mixture of pain, shock and terror. She steps clumsily backward, half-dazed, taking the force of thirty sets of eyes on her like a blow to the chest.

"Fuck," Harvey whispers. "Fuck fuck _fuck_."

The redhead staggers back another few steps, then turns and bolts.

Harvey shoves his way through the crowd and rushes after her.

Rachel turns to Mike, mouth trembling, eyes filled with tears. "What the hell is happening?"

Mike shakes his head. He doesn't know.

III

Harvey sprints through the firm's main corridor, chasing Donna down. He expects her to head for the main entrance, but she blows passed the elevators without breaking stride and exits out the stairwell.

 _Christ, she's fast_ — outrunning him in heels. Next he'll learn she's some kind of Olympic athlete.

Harvey barrels through the heavy metal door after her. He hesitates on the landing, disoriented for a moment, because looking down the stairs he doesn't see her. But he hears the rapid clicking of her heels…. _above him_.

She's going _up._

His heart slams against his chest. He takes the stairs two at a time, practically leaping up them.

The staircase ends at the roof access. The door is open. Harvey stumbles out into the mid-morning sun and for one gut-wrenching moment the space looks empty.

His vision spins, his knees go weak, he can't breathe—

Then he catches sight of her. At the edge, staring down. Harvey yells out, but she doesn't turn, doesn't even react. He gets within reaching distance and takes her by the arm, gripping it as if to stabilize himself with the feel of her.

"Donna…" he says, panting like he just ran a fucking marathon. "Donna, look at me." He pulls her toward him, trying to coax her away from the edge.

Donna turns, looking a little wild around the eyes, and shoves him. Harvey staggers backwards, nearly falls, less because of the force of the actual shove and more because of the utter shock of it.

Donna stumbles too, sags against the ledge and begins to sink down, collapsing. Harvey goes to her and thoughtlessly takes her into his arms.

" _Please_ ," she chokes out. Her breathing is labored, coming out in short hard gasps. "Please, I can't…"

"Take a deep breath, Donna," Harvey says gently. "Just breathe. I got you."

" _I can't do this_."

He rests his hand on the back of her neck and pulls her in, pressing his cheek against her red hair. "Stop it," he pleads. "You can do this. You're strong—"

"I'm not—I'm not. I'm a coward," she says, hysterical, writhing and trying to get free of him. "I'm a selfishcoward. I ran away from my husband. I _erased_ them. And now… _god_ …oh god…"

Rage courses through Harvey's blood stream – an erratic, turbulent fury like he's never felt before. He almost overspills with it, but he holds calm, despite the fact that there is absolutely _nothing_ he wants more than to find whoever made that exposé and rip their fucking throat out.

"You did what had to be done," Harvey tells Donna firmly, pinning her arms at her sides and holding tight. "You can't blame yourself for how you've coped."

She stares into his face, frustrated and guilty to the point of tears. "I lied to you," she says breathlessly. "I wasn't even working at the DA when we met. You just assumed and I…I went with it."

For a moment the shift in conversation has Harvey confused. "No, you…" He swallows, sweat chilling his brow. "You switched to my desk."

Donna shakes her head, tears streaming down her face.

 _What the hell is she talking about? How could that_ ….then it clicks. Shifts. Pieces snap together like a puzzle: Jonathan taking meetings with Cameron at the DA's office; Donna seeking Harvey out, asking to sit at his desk. COO to government secretary – it sounds less like a genuine career change and more like a cold, clever strategy.

 _Pain._ It envelops Harvey. He stares at Donna and she stares back at him stare, both baffled by her betrayal. He feels like his feet have been swept out from under him. His trust in Donna has always been rock-solid and unquestionable, and now she's telling him their whole relationship has been built on cut-rate foundation.

Worse, he should have known better. A beautiful, captivating, and strangely omnipotent woman slinks up beside a lowly ADA at a bar wanting to sit at his desk because their priorities just _happen_ to align. It's not exactly rocket-science.

She said she wanted to be an actress. He almost laughs out loud at the sheer fucking irony of it.

"Of course you didn't," Harvey mutters. The words drain him. Use him up. His head falls forward and bows into her chest; his grip on her weakens. Set free, Donna's hands run up his arms, over his shoulders to his neck, slide gently through his hair.

Her touch seeps into him like anesthetic, numbing the ache. In her embrace, he is tricked into thinking he's safe. _How can hands both stab and soothe at the same time?_ He wonders, and _god, when did this all stop making sense?_

"I'm so sorry," she whispers, her voice distorted by anguish. "I'm so, so sorry."

She did what had to be done. For her daughter. _For Alice._ He can't blame her for that. But can he forgive her?

Harvey breathes out and straightens, forcing himself to steady. He looks into Donna's eyes and sees pain and fear but also comfort, as if she's shoving her own feelings aside to make room for what he needs. And he knows what the answer is, what it always will be.

"It's okay," he says thickly. "Let's just put it behind us."

Donna's face stills, her eyes search his, gauging his sincerity. "That's not..." She sighs. "There's more. Russo –"

Harvey groans softly. Grinds out, "It doesn't matter."

"No, Harvey, listen to me –"

"Goddamn it, Donna," he snaps. "I said it doesn't matter."

"It _does_ matter." She steps away from him. Like she knows her closeness is inebriating. "Damn it, hold me accountable!"

"Don't you think you're going through enough?"

"I'd rather know where we stand."

" _We're fine_."

Her voice escalates; she almost shouts at him, "How can you just _say_ that –"

" _Because_."

He stops there, tries to hold the reason in, but it rises like vomit. It moves from somewhere deep within him, clawing up his windpipe. Years and years of it. He has to get it out, get it off his chest.

He must pale, turn green in a sickened panic.

Donna stares at him with a face about to hurl itself into outrage. _Don't you dare_ , her eyes say. _Not again._

But it's too late. The words are already tumbling past his traitor lips.

"Because I love you, Donna."

Donna staggers back, wide-eyed, like the words have risen into the empty space between them and stare her down. He sees the same look fall across her face as Friday night—doubt, fear—this realization that she'd seen him as something out of a catalogue that maybe she wanted, but he's not made from the right material. He won't fit.

He almost wants to apologize.

Instead, he elaborates, enunciates, puts it all out on the table. "I love you no matter what. And I will forever take how fucking angry you've made me over how empty my life would be if I never met you. So it doesn't matter what you did – that you lied, if you're guilty. I don't care if the whole world thinks you're some morally bankrupt criminal. I'm on your side. _Always_. And I will defend your integrity every goddamn day if I have to."

Donna runs a hand through her hair, her expression dazed, almost drowsy. He might as well have punched her in the face. "I don't deserve this," she whispers, and her expression shifts, the pale contours of her face twist in pain.

Harvey takes her face and cradles it in his hands, his thumbs brushing away tears. "I can't put a number to how many times you've saved me over the years," he tells her, realizing for the first time that this is true. Donna has been the constant in his life, guiding him; his reassuring lighthouse. He can weather any storm because, through her, he knows exactly where his shoreline is. "I wouldn't be _half_ the man I am if I didn't have you supporting me, and I sure as hell wouldn't have my name on that wall."

Donna shuts her eyes. Fresh tears spill down her cheeks and collect in Harvey's palms. He coaxes her closer and rests his forehead against hers. "No one deserves my support more than you," he murmurs. "You have to know that."

Donna's lids lift with a slow, half-open heaviness, and those dark eyes bore into his. Her stare is somehow both intense and distant. Like the sun, he's able to witness her presence, yet she is infinitely out of his reach.

"We'll survive this," Harvey says. "I promise."

"We?" she whispers.

" _We,"_ he repeats. "You're not and never will be alone."

Donna's hand slide around his nape and pulls him down gently. Their lips meet. It's a brief, maddening touch, and just as quickly she breaks off and presses her face into his shoulder.

Harvey wraps his arms around her, his heart beating in a way he can't take, and holds her tight against him.

* * *

A/N: I've been super busy lately, so this update is a little short. With that said, the next chapter will probably be the climax of the plot and will include the last of the flashbacks (there is some fun stuff coming that I'm excited about writing).

I can't thank those of you enough for reviewing. Seriously. With such a complicated plot, the writing can get difficult. Seeing that there are still some of you out there enjoying it keeps me going.


	15. Family First

**Warning! This is a heavy chapter.**

 **I**

 _She dreams of Alice on a swing. Younger, four maybe, her brilliant copper hair billowing out behind her as she soars through the air. "Look Mommy," she shouts. "I'm flying." Then she lets go, jumps from the seat of the swing and begins to free fall. Donna runs after her, but she's too far away. She'll never make it in time. When Alice hits the ground it cracks open, a frozen lake, she plummets through. Just before Donna can dive in after her someone grabs her by the waist. Jonathan. "Let her go," he says. But she can't. She can't let her go. And by the time she gets free of his grip it's too late. The fissure is sealed off, solid, and no matter how hard she slams her fits against the earth it doesn't break open._

 _Donna wakes, already in tears. It's dark out. Not night, but overcast. She's not sure what time it is. Jonathan might be home soon and she still hasn't gone to the grocery store. Hasn't gone anywhere. Hasn't done a thing. She took her pills, slept, drank a little too much of the bourbon she hides in the top drawer of her bureau — she's not even sure why she hides it, Jonathan knows it's there. Some nights, when she can't stop crying, he even hands it to her._

 _She stares at the ceiling and tries to find the will to get up, but the I-can't-do-this-anymore that's been knocking around in her head all day has gotten heavier. Like a sign post signaling toward something that is still fuzzy and undefined._

 _After a while Molly begins to bark. Again and again and again. It must go on for hours. Donna stands up, puts on her white silk bathrobe and walks into the hall._

 _The golden retriever is at Alice's door, whining to be let in._

" _She's not there, Molly," Donna says softly. "Come on. Let's go downstairs."_

 _The dog looks at Donna, wags her tail, and then turns back to the door. She starts sniffing and digging, paws scratching the hardwood at the gap above the floor._

" _She's not there," Donna says more severely. But the scratching continues, the barking goes on, the whining doesn't cease. "Stop," she begs. "Please, just stop."_

 _Scratch. Scratch. Scratch._

" _Stop it!"_

 _Bark. Bark. Bark._

" _Damn it, you stupid dog. She's gone. Why can't you get that? She's gone. She's not coming back." Donna runs down the hallway and throws the door open to prove it to her._

 _Molly bolts in and Donna stands frozen at the threshold. She has avoided this bedroom since Alice passed away, afraid of exactly the sort of pain that grips her. It is almost more than she knows what to do with, but at the same time there is a yearning there, a desperate helplessness that pushes her forward._

 _She steps inside, amazed by how it's remained exactly how Alice left it – bed unmade, Junie B. book on the night stand, hockey jersey rumpled on the floor. Donna's fingertips brush the bedspread, a teddy bear, her pillowcase, as if checking for a pulse somewhere among her child's possessions._

 _Out of the corner of her eye, Donna notices Alice's pink notebook sticking up from the box they brought home from the hospital, asserting itself like a beacon._ _She slowly plucks it out, sits on the small four poster bed and begins to delicately leaf through. The pages are worn in such a way that it naturally falls open to Alice's Goal List. She and Harvey Specter started it together, and seeing that Alice was encouraged by it, Donna added to it and helped her fulfill what she could. Most of the items are crossed off, but the ones that remain make Donna ache: win Daddy at chess, drink a whole beer, go to Harvard, learn Chinese, have Mommy and Harvey meet._

 _The handwriting of her List is done in three distinct texts: Donna's refined private school cursive, Alice's large blocky scribbles, always escalating in size – Donna imagines her sentences starting at a whisper and ending in a shout— and then a masculine scrawl, small and almost illegible. Harvey's. The masculine scrawl and refined cursive clash: it is his Harvard Law Review to her Doctor Zhivago, Otis Redding to Chopin's Spring Waltz, a home run and then a flying pas de chat; being led by the two of them, Alice was either highly cultured or seriously confused._

 _Donna almost laughs._

 _She turns a page and a photo slips out. It's a four-frame, photo booth photo. The first image is of Alice turned profile, a slight scowl on her face, pulling on a tie belonging to a blurred head. The second image reveals the blurred head as Harvey Specter, wearing a wide handsome grin. Alice stands to match his sitting height, throwing bunny ears and a devious smile. In the third, Harvey has countered with a tickle to her gut. Alice is frozen mid-shriek, fear and elation alive in her blue eyes. Harvey's smile is 10-fold. Both are breathtaking. In the last image, Alice is not looking at the camera, but at Harvey. She sees love in her daughter's eyes and a surprisingly deep respect and admiration. She had found in him a role-model, a teacher, an inspiration, a confident and a friend._

 _The tears come in a rush, and suddenly Donna finds herself thinking she will never get passed this. That the pain and hollowness will always be there, becoming her. The grief will never let up. It is unrelenting waves a thousand feet tall, mercilessly beating her down,_ _demanding surrender and submission. It's a nightmare, and she has to live in it and keep living in it, knowing that each day that passes takes her further away from her. And she doesn't want to keep moving away from her. She wants competition. She wants an ending. She wants a deep resting sleep she never has to wake up from._

 _And what was fuzzy and undefined becomes blatantly obvious._

 **II**

Inside the firm, it is reverently quiet. Even the new associates, who hardly know Donna, fall into a solemn unity, shutting off the TVs and blacklisting news sites. Mike is stunned by the show of affection; he's seen PSL come together in camaraderie before, but never in such a wide scale.

The reverence doesn't stop at the firm either. The support for Donna expands, explodes.

Secretaries from the accounting firm on the thirty-second floor drop in to pay their respects, leaving on Donna's empty desk a bouquet of mauve roses and a bottle of Cabernet. The insurance sharks on fifteen follow with teas from Dimbula and a spa basket. The software engineers, floorless, leave tech trinkets and a Barboglio decanter.

The day burns down and still, others come, silent and ceremonious: clerks, court officers, a judge from the appeals, the lobby body guard. Coffee-Cart guy drops off what he tells Mike are "loosely" recreational brownies. Donna's desk becomes an altar; flowers, cards and sweets fill her cubicle and overspill.

"Macallan 18?" Harvey is saying, eyebrow raised suspiciously at Fat Billy — a tall, bearded, not-fat, homeless man who squats in the outer alley.

"I didn't steal it if that's what you're thinkin'" Billy says, shoving the bottle into a free nook beside Donna's desk. "I sold my uke."

" _What_?" Mike's mouth falls open. "You didn't."

"I owe it to her, Mr. Ross. Every day that woman brings me lunch. Rain or shine. No thank you needed. She remembers my birthday, thanks me for my service, makes a poor old mutt like me feel human and that—" He chokes up, sniffs, wipes a stray tear. "That's a good woman. And what they're saying about her on these TVs, it ain't right. A villainess, they say. No way. Not Donna, she's gold. If she ain't an angel, she's halfway there, right? And that baby of hers, dyin' like that. Cancer is one motherfucker."

Mike and Harvey nod, riding Billy's words like a sermon.

"As a mama, facing a loss that big. What do you do, man?"

"What it takes," Harvey answers.

"Yeah, son. What it takes. You burn the world down. Simple. They lock her up, I'll riot."

Harvey pulls out his wallet. "Here," he says, offering Fat Billy a handful of bills. "Get your guitar back."

Fat Billy slides back, offended. "So you can thieve my glory? No sir." He pushes Harvey's outstretched hand down and takes the managing partner by the shoulder. "I'll tell you what. You keep your change. Take that cash and buy Red a nice romantic dinner."

"Bill—"

"Hush now. No excuses. I know you the honeyman, but I love you's gotta be said in a thousand ways, every day, brother."

 _Honeyman_. Mike fights a schoolboy urge to chuckle and tucks the nickname away for later. "Baby steps, Billy," he says. "Harvey has a hard enough time saying it one way."

Fat Billy's face falls serious. Eyes narrowed at Harvey, he scolds: "You need to swallow your pride, boy. Before someone else comes and snatches that girl up."

Harvey nods noncommittally.

"He's trying," Mike vouches. "It's just a lot to choke down when your pride is the size of a 747."

Billy laughs, a rattily, smoker's cackle. "Now you, Mr. Ross, are singing my song."

 **III**

 _The snow continues to drift. Donna looks out at her rooftop garden and sees the decaying foliage covered by a blanket of white. The first snow has always felt like a new beginning to her. Gentle, perfect, clean. A blank canvas._

 _She slides open the glass door and steps out, barefoot. The shock of ice should send a shiver up her spine, but she is numb to the point that it could just as easily be a sandy beach at her feet. She moves to the roof's edge, her footprints vulgar imperfections that taint and harm. She looks down. Forty-four floors. But it is only one step to street level. The thought lifts her; she steps up onto the narrow stone ledge._

 _The traffic below is loud and bustling. She thinks of Connecticut, and how this kind of snow would put it to sleep. Like witnessing something holy, the town would fall reverently quiet. But New York is indifferent. People shout, horns honk, lights change, and bodies wander purposefully while she stands over a ledge, struggling to summon the motivation to end her own life._

 _There's a phone in her hand. She's not sure how it got there, but she knows she should call someone. It's not right, how she's feeling. Cornered by her own thoughts. It's a bottom she'd never imagined she'd hit. And she doesn't want to die, not necessarily, she just doesn't want to be alive anymore. She wants to hit pause, catch her breath, figure out how to function in a world that keeps moving along without her. But that's not an option, and you can't be sad forever as Jonathan would say, and he'll be home soon, to an empty fridge and a wife that can't stop crying long enough to give him what he needs. Does he still love her now that the giving is gone? She doesn't think he does._

 _Donna finds herself dialing a number she knows by heart._

 _Her voice when she picks up is smooth and rich with the lively drawl of a Connecticut housewife. "Donna," she says. "Is it our yearly phone conversation already?"_

 _Donna shuts her eyes, wishing this voice was there with her instead of a hundred miles away. "Hi, Mama," she says weakly._

 _She hears her mother's heels – their distinct, rhythmic click has always been one of Donna's favorite sounds – and then the background noise lightens and disappears. She says, "What is it, honey?"_

I am tired, _she wants to tell her. She wants to tell her everything. Every sad, hopeless thought she's feeling, like she used to when she was a teenager and Jonathan left her for the military. She wants to crawl into her big canopied bed, sob her eyes out, and hear her say everything will be okay. That she'll heal, hearts break and mend. It's life. But Donna isn't a teenager anymore and this is more than just heart break. "Nothing," she says. "I just missed you."_

" _I miss you too, sweetheart. But I don't think that's why you called."_

 _Donna watches the fine snow drift from the gray sky; it falls easy and unafraid, straight down into the dark heart of New York._ Will it hurt? _She wonders._ Does it matter?

" _How's Alan doing?"_

" _Alan?" She sounds alarmed. Donna rarely asks on her mother's boyfriend._

" _He's…alright, I guess. His back is giving him problems again. It always seems to act up in the winter." And then, as if it just occurred to her,_ _"Hey—how about you come see me. Come up for the weekend. I'll get the room ready for you."_

" _I don't think so, Mom."_

" _Donna—"_

" _I'm sorry," she says, realizing she didn't call her mother to talk her down. "I'm sorry I was angry at you when you left dad. I was just too young to understand. I didn't realize how hard marriage can be. But you were right to leave him. You were right and you were brave, and I'm so grateful we got as close as we did in those years, because it was some of the best times of my life growing up."_

" _Donna, you're scaring me," she says slowly and delicately, as if her maternal instinct senses her daughter teetering on the edge and she's afraid her words might unbalance her further. "Where is this all coming from?"_

" _I love you."_

" _Quit this now. You—"_

" _Someone's at the door." Donna says, cutting her off. She hates herself for lying but she doesn't want to worry her more. "I should go."_

" _Don—"_

 _She hangs up, feeling her mother's fear and disappointment looming over her._

 _The wind picks up. Donna's hair dances in the cool breeze. The snowflakes swirl and blow every which way, millions and millions of them, falling turbulent and without the easy peace of before. She closes her eyes._

 _Fragments of her life pour down on her. She is five years old, chasing chickens on her nans farm, barefoot and muddy, so much like Alice in the way she stained her dresses. Then she is eight, going shopping at the high-end outlets with her daddy. They brought home a six-foot tall blow up giraffe that her mother hated so much she popped it with a kitchen knife. Then fifteen comes around and she's in a new town – the rich bitch from Cortland – she is too goody-goody and private-school to fit in, but she tells her parents she's okay, because her well-being is one less thing for them to fight about. At sixteen she starts piano lessons again. Her instructor plays like Leif Ove Andsnes and he is only three years older than she is and every time he looks at her she blushes. She tells him she loves him that winter. He tells her it won't work; he's going into the military and besides, she's too young. They make love anyway, on top of his Steinway grand piano, and he is gone three months later. She waits, writes him novel length letters and he writes back, a Nabokov, expressing his adoration for her in wonderfully long prose. When he comes home, it's earlier than anyone expected, and he's not how he left. But she marries him anyway, because in her head there's no one else._

 _Alice comes; born in spring, the whole world blossoms at her arrival. She is the best of both of them. Soft and tough, clever and imaginative. Perfect. Holding her in her arms, Donna knows a mother is who she's meant to be._

 _The memories continue, in a rush: Alice's confident first steps, her baby teeth falling out, Jonathan and her asleep together in pop's old rocking chair, her first hockey goal. Thanksgivings pass and Christmases fly by, followed by New Years and Birthdays… It goes bad. There are hospitals and mediflights, solemn doctors with bad news, Alice screaming and screaming, Jonathan and Donna fighting as if the cancer metastasized into their marriage. Her head becomes full of the vulgar beeping of the machines in the ICU._

 _Then she's gone. Donna looks out of the hospital window expecting Manhattan to crumble at the loss, but it is a beautiful summer day and the world keeps going. She sees Jonathan cry for the first time, locked in the bathroom, they hide from the guests at the wake, clinging to each other like a couple of lost kids. Then grief turns those lost kids into strangers. They live inside their empty house, thinking they'll find their cure in silence and anger._

 _Donna wills herself to think of something peaceful. Something good to go on, and is brought back to the last time she saw Alice smile. She sees her wide, excited eyes, deep and blue as the ocean, and her beautiful freckled face lifted in elation._

 _A voice breaks the frame, soft and nonexistent. A whisper in the breeze: We don't give up._

 _Donna opens her eyes and steps off the ledge._

 _She can't. Not yet. She has something to cross off Alice's list._

 **IV**

"Twenty-four," Mike mutters, pacing back and forth in Harvey's office. "You wanna push your shady agenda. What do you do? Hire a desperate twenty-four year old as an executive officer, _obviously_."

"It's exploitation," Louis says from the doorway. "The SEC should have been on this like flies on shit."

Mike nods his agreement, thankful that Louis is no longer in the dark. He'd expected nothing less of tyrannical onslaught out of him after the news hit, but Louis surprised everyone by keeping a cool head — well, mostly, he did tell the associates he'd disembowel anyone who even breathes Duke-Sanger, but on the broad spectrum of things, he hasn't caused any additional chaos. In fact, Mike would say Louis has it together better than the rest of them. They've been dragging this weight for days and their fatigue shows…especially Harvey's.

Mike glances at the managing partner then. Harvey sits at his desk, lost in a thought so deep his eyes seem to sink in after it. He isn't himself, and it isn't just his facial hair, which Mike finds oddly off-putting, but his whole persona. His voice when he speaks is too quiet and his composure lacks its usual insufferable arrogance.

"Why would the SEC overlook this?" Rachel asks.

"Bribery, blackmail, extortion." Louis shrugs. "You can bet your ass it wasn't anything legal."

"Maybe we should get in touch with Cahill," Mike offers. "See if he knows anything."

They all look to Harvey for confirmation. His stare remains vacant, still gripped by his internal demon.

"Harvey?" Mike prompts.

"The SEC is a dead-end," Harvey says absently. "We need to look at the investors. Stock drops an average of six percent when a new female CEO is announced. A young female who also happens to be the chairman's wife —"

"Duke-Sanger should have crashed and burned," Louis finishes.

Harvey nods. "We need to find out who the biggest shareholders were at the time Donna was promoted."

Mike thinks of their two clients caught up in this mess. Two big clients. "That might create a conflict of interest for us," he puts in, a half-hearted protest.

"We'll drop clients if we have to," Harvey says, and looks at Mike for what feels like the first time since he walked in half an hour ago. "Donna comes first."

Mike's heart skips a beat. He thinks everyone's does. Rachel and Louis both turn to him, and their eyes say exactly what Mike is thinking, _we can't afford to "drop" even one client_ , but no one says a word, because it doesn't matter. At the end of the day Pearson Specter Litt is just a name across the wall of a downtown high rise, but Donna is family. And family comes first.

 **V**

It's nearly midnight. Harvey sits at his desk, staring at a blank document. Two hours it's been and he hasn't typed a single word on the Motion to Dismiss he's meant to send out in the morning.

For her, he's taken all his armor off and now suddenly everything is getting to him. He is tormented. A thousand thoughts wreak havoc on his mind; the DoJ cases, this exposé, the dying cactus on his coffee table, Donna…

Mostly Donna. The warm wet of her lips, the almost-green of her eyes, her in his arms, how her smell still clings to him — coconuts and lilacs and dry salty tears. And then it is Donna and Jonathan, locked in a tight embrace — there is still love there, deep and endless. And himself, always afraid of letting go and falling in, how can he compete?

She wanted to tell him more. Spill more. Something about Russo. He pushed it out, said he forgave her, but it's there, thickening and festering in the furthest corner of his mind. He wants to believe she is the same, unchanged by these secrets, and so he has formed himself into a man who is oblivious and unaware. He hasn't even looked at her case file, not once.

Still, there are some things you can't escape.

Harvey heaves a shuddering exhale and drags himself up. He has to get a grip on himself. Get a grip and get serious.

He pours himself a scotch. Downs it. Hesitates to pour another, afraid his thoughts will get loose and call action. He'll show up at her door, ready to fight or fuck or fall to pieces, he can't be sure which. Maybe all three. So instead, he paces. Grabs one of the basketballs lining his wall — Patrick Ewing — and twirls it between his fingertips. It spins out of his grip, hits the corner of his desk and smashes the phone off the receiver.

He watches the ball bounce across the room, dumbstruck. God, even his dexterity has gone to shit.

Harvey leaves the ball where it lies, walks out, wanders down the hallway and into the bullpen. The memory of being a junior associate tugs at him, back when his responsibility was drudge work — checking for typos, making sure the decimals were in the right place — and the worst that would happen if he failed was Hardman would lay into him. Make his life hell…or at least what he thought was hell.

Now if he fails, jobs are lost and with them goes livelihoods and legacy. The fear of what's to come — the choices he'll have to make and the people he'll have to let down — falls down on him like a trap he can't get out of.

Eventually Harvey finds himself standing at the window of his old office. It's only been a week, but this space, which he once had such an intimate attachment to — more home than his own home — already feels like it's no longer his. He fought wars within these walls, found glory; he was born and raised here. And now he's sadly out of place. A foreigner in his homeland.

And it is this, of all things, that shatters him.

He folds, slides down the wall, pulls his knees up to his chest and weeps without restraint. He hasn't felt this broken since he was seventeen, when his shoulder went and with it, his dream of pitching for the major leagues. It consumes him, shakes him; he can't stop.

"Harvey?"

Her voice. It seems to come from a void, distorted. It reaches out, gentle and intimate, as tangible as a caress. Harvey lifts his head slowly to meet it.

And it is Donna, but it isn't.

She has Donna's red hair, fair skin and dazzling demeanor; even her cocked head and soft, questioning gaze is Donna's. But she's older, blue eyed and more severe. Not a New Yorker. Despite the edge and salt in her manner, there is a wholesomeness about her. He thinks, Connecticut. _Yes, that's it._ Donna's mother.

Sandra comes forward and kneels before Harvey. "What are we doing down here, sweetheart?" She asks. Her voice is refined, low and smooth, almost elegant if not for the languid slant of her vowels. She is high-class, but the lively, sultry kind.

Harvey stares at her, entranced. "I…I don't know."

"Well, I'd say that's enough then." She stands and offers him a delicate hand. "Come on. Let's pick ourselves up."

He obeys, too stunned by this woman's presence to put up an argument. "I'm sorry," he starts, rising. "Mrs.—"

"Donovan."

"But what are you doing here?"

Mrs. Donovan doesn't respond straight away, but takes a moment to straighten out her teal dress. "I saw Donna on the news," she tells him. "I was out having lunch with my girlfriends, and I look up and there she is. All over Channel 3. Not a nice way for a mother to hear her daughter's become a national criminal, is it?"

Harvey nods. The understanding of what it's like to be blindsided is still too raw for him to comment on. "You haven't been able to get a hold of her?"

"Not a word. Infuriating, really, how often that girl avoids me. I tried her at home first. Here seemed the next obvious place." She fixes Harvey with a sharp look. "Seems she's always here."

"I gave her the day off," Harvey says, sensing her accusation. Figuring he has a lot of explaining to do, he walks across the room to Mike's bar cart and pours them both a drink. "I'm surprised security let you up."

"Honey, I can sway an ocean to make its waves turn 'round. A security guard is hardly an obstacle." She accepts his offered scotch, but looks a little offended. With a raised brow, she says, "You call this a shot? I thought a nice, Boston grown boy like you would know the definition of hospitality."

Harvey smiles fondly. "I think you forgot I was at that dinner party. Any more than that and I'm entirely certain you'll burn this place down."

Donna's mother laughs. She has a pleasant laugh: delicate, rich and convincing. Sandra Donovan could laugh as she murders you, and you'd want to join in on her amusement. "And you'll be the one holding the matches. You were just as bad as I was that night. Worse I'd wager."

Harvey doesn't deny it.

Mrs. Donovan sips her scotch and walks the perimeter of Mike's office, eyeing his obscure art collection. Without looking at Harvey, she says, "I hear you're managing partner now."

"By title."

"By title," she repeats, turning to give him a flat stare. "And what does that mean?"

It seems easier to just admit it. "The firm is a shit show. The hot dog stand on the corner has better management, and even then I feel like I'm doing the hot dog stand an injustice using the comparison." He breathes out, feeling like a burden has lifted off his shoulders with the admission. Normally he'd unload on Donna, and he finds it strangely appropriate that it should be her mother that he finds the same kind of solace in. "I have no idea what I'm doing."

"Do any of us?" She lets the question hang, turning to inspect a wooden four-square statue at the edge of Mike's Desk. Unimpressed, her attention falls back to Harvey. "Power is an illusion. Life is too chaotic to have any real control. All you have to be is the man who holds his composure and makes the hard decisions. Right. Wrong. It doesn't matter. These people just need someone to believe in."

Harvey stares down at his drink, feeling a twisted, sinking feeling in his gut. His composure is crumbling, and every decision he faces squeezes and paralyzes him. He doesn't even believe in himself anymore, how can he hold the belief of others?

He protests. "What if I can't be the man everyone thinks I am?"

"From what I've heard, everyone thinks you're a jerk with an over-sized ego." She shrugs and offers him a good-natured smile. "Would being something else be such a bad thing?"

"Jerks with egos win."

"Win what? Their name on some damn wall? It'll probably be replaced next week by some other jerk. Seems the way things go around here. Pearson something-or-other. I can't ever keep it straight." The words fall too distinct. He senses reprimand in them. Blame. She continues, on a roll, "Sure, you've got your million dollar pay checks. But what do you buy? A condo in Florida you never get to visit? Another fancy sports car you don't drive because you're working a hundred hours a week? Sounds to me like you're winning everything and nothing. And I think that's what you're most afraid of. You've made it to the top and the view isn't what you sold your soul for."

Harvey folds his arms across his chest, defensive but not insulted. She is speaking to him in a way Donna never has, in a way he hasn't known since his father died. He translates her harsh politeness to his dad's age-old "grow up and get your head out of your ass."

"I'm sorry," she says, softening. "I'm out of line. You should have poured more. I'm more palatable when I'm drunk."

"No. You're…" Harvey sighs. "You're right. I thought I'd be happier. Managing partner has been my focus for years and now that I have it I…" Harvey swallows and meets Donna's mother's eyes. "I'm not sure it's what I want." And hearing it aloud, he realizes it's true. Maybe he's not cut out for it. Maybe he chose the wrong path.

Mrs. Donovan understands and is motherly honest. "That's okay. It's a profession. You can walk away from this and the world will keep turning." She sets her empty glass on Mike's desk and moves to smooth Harvey's lapel and straighten his tie. "But in the meantime, you need to shave your face, hide your insecurities and start acting like a managing partner. This firm needs you, and so does that delinquent daughter of mine. And who knows, maybe you'll change your mind. It might be that you want this, there's just something special that's missing."

Donna. That lock-box version of her that Harvey keeps tucked away invades his mind. Naked in his arms, she is saying in that husky after-sex voice, _"You're going to need something more substantial than your name on some door."_ The idea seemed crazy to him then. He craved nothing but high rises, city lights, and luxury. He wanted his women coming and going, revolving, so he never had to deal with the deep connection. He should feel like the world is his, but all he feels is hollow, and within that hollow chimes a growing echo of deep regret.

Harvey's phone buzzes in his pocket and pulls him out of the past. Seeing a local area code, he excuses himself and picks up.

"Hey, Harvey. It's Doug, over at The Local Whiskey on Baxter. I have Donna here…she's, uh, not in a good way."

"I'll be right over."

Mrs. Donovan looks at Harvey expectantly. He thinks about lying to her in an effort to spare Donna, but he knows better than to try to pull one over on this woman.

"She's at a bar in Lower Manhattan."

She smiles humorously. "Wonderful. Shall we?"

* * *

A/N: Part 2 is called **The Night We Met** , and I'm working on finishing it currently. It was just getting so long that I decided to split it into two. I must admit, I hated writing this, but Donna's arc needed it. I'm sorry for all the heavy and pain and I promise - SPOILER -that this will end happy and satisfying (and I don't mean that in a vague, Korsh sense). We're on the mend now.

Also, one of my guest reviews mentioned the movie Arrival with Amy Adams having a similar feel to this story. I watched it and it was amazing. Heavy, haunting and right up my street. Also, the soundtrack was phenomenal and I listened to it while writing this chapter. So thank you whoever you are for recommending that!

Reviews are always greatly appreciated. I'm getting close to the finish line, and all your kind encouragements mean so much.


	16. Donna

**A/N:** All dialogue in Act II is taken from SUITS. Act IV was meant to go in a previous chapter (and will be moved eventually), but I stuck it in this one. I'm sorry if it doesn't flow well, but I know some of you guys like flashback Harvey and Alice, so I didn't want to cut it.

I

 _The District Attorney's office is a large granite building situated across the street from Columbus park and on the outer edge of China Town. The cab driver drops Donna off near the park's pavilion, at an area that has been condemned since the early 90s. There is a bum huddled beneath the fenced-off awning, trying to escape the falling snow. At his feet is a sign; bathed in the light of the street lamps, it reads: HOMELESS AND HUNGRY PLEASE HELP. Standing in the chilling breeze, warmed by her wool overcoat, Donna feels a sudden twinge of sympathy. Given all she's lost, she still has more than some._

 _She treks in heels unfit for the icy weather up the untreated pavilion steps and offers the homeless man what little cash she carries. His thanks is gracious, but his face falls when she conditions the money with a cab ride to a nearby shelter. "Spend the money however you'd like," she tells him. "But please, find a warm place to sleep."_

 _Inside the county building, there is a security guard positioned in the main hallway. "The DA offices are to the right," he informs, letting Donna by with a guest pass. She realizes too late she could have entered at the opposite side of the building and saved herself the stares of fifty government employees. She tries to walk tall and look some-what dignified, but after being a hermit for the better part of six months, she imagines there is an awkwardness about her, like she's trying to crawl back into a world she no longer belongs to._

 _Donna rounds a corner and finds a paneled door labeled District Attorney. Inside is a large communal office that, aside from three young women, is practically deserted. She walks up to the reception desk and lingers, waiting for the curly haired clerk sitting behind it to end her phone conversation._

" _Were you flirting or—?" The woman glances at Donna briefly and gestures for a moment. "Booze?" She says in the receiver. "Ew. Did you tell her to fuck-off? You did? Well that oughtta teach her."_

 _It is with the reflexes of a COO and the ingrained necessity to keep the proletariat in line that Donna reaches over and presses the hook._

" _Hey! What the hell?!"_

" _Harvey Specter," Donna says coolly. "Where can I find him?"_

 _The receptionist looks around wide-eyed, as if trying to find a witness to the violation that just occurred. "Harvey isn't here," she says. "Now can I—"_

" _I didn't ask if Harvey was here. I asked where I can find him."_

" _I don't know. It's not my job to keep track of our ADAs."_

 _Donna feels a stab of annoyance, but it is quickly smothered by a wave of hopelessness. The receptionist must sense Donna's utter defeat, because she softens and adds in a whisper, "Look, I would check with his secretary for you, but Tina's pretty useless. Come by tomorrow morning and I'll get you an appointment with him. What's your name?"_

Tomorrow. Will there be one?

" _Don't worry about it," Donna says. "But thank you anyway and…sorry about your call. Old habits."_

 _Back out on the street, Donna stands stunned, feeling empty and contemplating what her next move should be when that same homeless man struts up to her._

" _Why the face, Red?"_

" _I…" Donna frowns. "I thought you were going to a shelter."_

" _That was your idea, right?" Musing, he smooths his beard with long, thin fingers. "I ain't arguing. These shelters fill up too quick and an old git like me just takes up space. Plus I got God on my side, you see. My angel's red headed. I am rejoicing." He offers her a bottle of whiskey, which seems to have materialized into his hand. "Here. Take a sip, kid. You look sad."_

 _Donna stares at the bottle. Macallan 18. She lifts an eyebrow._

 _The bum shrugs, unashamed. "Better than two hundred dollars' worth of crack."_

" _That…" Donna nods her head, and finds herself smiling. "That is true."_

 _He waggles the bottle at her and she thinks,_ to hell with it _, and takes a swallow. Childishly, she finds herself thinking about how disappointed her mother would be, then remembers their phone call from earlier, how she stood up on top of that ledge and almost —_

 _She takes another swallow._

 _Before she knows it, she is sitting on the freshly salted curb outside Columbus Park listening to this man, who calls himself Fat Billy, play Master of The House from Les Mis on his ukulele._

Is this rock bottom? _Donna wonders. Sitting in the cold, drinking whiskey with a bum in a condemned park? She thinks about getting up and catching a cab back to Tribeca and the thought makes her sick. She can't be Donna Martell anymore. She won't survive it. That rooftop will keep calling, and Jonathan and his oppressive gray eyes will keep trying to shove her over it._

 _Billy strums a closing chord, and says to Donna, "You think she's cruel."_

" _She?"_

" _She. Our city. Mother-love." He pats the salted sidewalk. "She ain't though. You just gotta treat her right."_

 _Buzzed and strangely hypnotized by Billy's rhythmic drawl, Donna places her palm on the sidewalk._

" _You feel her purr?"_

" _No," she says sadly._

" _Take another swig then, pretty lady. You'll get there."_

 _Donna pushes her palm down harder, wishing she could press herself into the city and become it. Absorb its indifference. Change skin like a chameleon, into someone better suited for this world. But she can't. She's trapped. A prisoner to this growing feeling, which seems to have transcended sadness. She is packed full of it, filled up to the very brim, and it never overspills, it just condenses into this huge density. Like a black hole, she is sinking inwardly into an inescapable void._

Please. I don't know how to get free of this. Help me…

" _I was looking for someone," Donna admits, brushing salt crystals off her palms. "His name is Harvey."_

" _Harvey! Why didn't you say?"_

" _You know him?" She lifts a skeptical eyebrow._

" _Know him? Red, there's not a soul in this city us street folk don't know." He strums his ukulele for emphasis. "Fancy suit. Cocky. Goofy, fat kid in a candy shop kinda grin…"_

" _That's him!" Donna scrambles up. "Yes! That's him!"_

" _He's down there at The Local." He points up the block. "Kid goes there most Fridays, but he went early today. Won some big case."_

 _A heady exhilaration booms in Donna's chest. She doesn't know why meeting Harvey feels so monumental, but she can't stop the thrill surging through her._

 _She clasps Billy's cool hand between both of hers. "Thank you."_

" _See, friend Red." He says, grinning. "I earn my cabbage."_

II

 _Donna sits at the back of the whiskey bar, watching Harvey interact with a group of his colleagues._

 _Goosebumps travel up and down her skin. It seems almost…spiritual? Through Alice, this man has become larger than life. Like a saint, he has threaded silver-linings into her darkest moments and spoke words she holds sacred. It's irrational and silly — an arrogant Manhattan attorney is the opposite of holy — but she can't ignore the cathartic ebb nor the strange gravity coaxing her toward him._

 _She bites her bottom lip. How does she approach this? He has no idea what he symbolizes to her, and she's not sure she can get through a conversation about Alice without becoming a sobbing mess. She brought the notebook with her. Maybe she could just point to the line where it says "have mommy and Harvey meet," and that will be enough. But how sad and awkward is that? She wants to thank him, not drag him down._

 _Harvey breaks off from the group of attorneys and walks over to the bar. Donna seizes the opportunity, forcing herself out of her seat with a confidence she attributes to Billy's overpriced whiskey._

" _You know," she says, stepping up beside Harvey, "usually when somebody wins their first trial they at least_ pretend _to finish the drink their fellow ADAs bought them."_

 _Harvey turns to her slowly. His dark eyes meet and hold hers. There is a moment, the span of a heartbeat, where she is_ certain _he recognizes her. Not her from the hospital, but all the facets of Alice she embodies. His brow furrows._ Impossible. _She almost feels him shove the thought away._

 _He doesn't want to think about Alice, she realizes, and having this conversation is probably not something he's ready for. It's_ definitely _not something she's ready for, and now she's stuck in an introduction she doesn't know how to bail out of._

" _I'm sorry, do we—"_

" _Know each other?" Her masquerade smile quivers. "Not yet. But today is your lucky day."_

 _Harvey lifts an intrigued brow. "And why is that?"_

Good question. Why is that…

" _Because it's the day you get to meet Donna," she says, and she has absolutely no idea where she's heading with this. She's pulling words out of the air like the worst kind of improv actress. At this point she just wishes the floor would crack open and swallow her whole._

" _And let me guess." He smiles at her, strangely enticed by her astounding arrogance. "You're Donna?"_

" _Ooh," she shakes her head and grins with an in-over-my-head kind of hysteria, "you have no idea how Donna I am." And she has_ no idea _either, but she just keeps grinning and thinking this must be what losing your sanity feels like._

" _Well, Donna." He sticks out his hand. "I'm Harv—"_

" _Harvey Specter." Instinctively she takes his hand. A persona starts to take hold; it is years spent as COO mixed with just a little too much alcohol. "You really think I'd be talking to you if I didn't know who you were?"_

 _He looks skeptical. "And how exactly do you know about me?"_

Alice. Do you remember her? She had a face full of freckles and a contagious laugh. She hated shoes, but loved her skates, and could eat faster than you ever thought possible. _She wants to tell him how much her daughter loved him; how she had idolized him. But grief constricts her throat and she has to rush to deviate from the subject._

" _I know about everybody. But what I don't know is why this is the first case you ever took to trial."_

 _The conversation shifts. Business. Donna starts to relax into a role she's quite used to. And for whatever reason Harvey seems to buy into this brazen train wreck of confidence. This Donna._

God, what would Alice think? _Would she be ashamed? Amused? Proud of her mother for not being such a stick in the mud?_

 _Donna latches on to the latter, feeling like she's gained something precious. Although she can't really put her finger on what it is._

 _At Donna's request, Harvey buys her a drink and they move to a table at the back of the bar. They continue to discuss Harvey's case and it quickly occurs to her that his big 'win' is Brandon Russo — the very case Donna forced Cameron to pass off to Harvey as a gesture of appreciation. The pride and excitement in his voice as he speaks about the trial breaks Donna's heart; with the falsified evidence and tampered jury it was a fool proof win, and what she thought was a career boosting gift begins to feel somewhat demeaning._

 _It seems operating in the corporate world of tyrants and hierarchies has desensitized her. Turned her savage. She lost sight of the fact those high ideals like self-respect, accountability, and hard work matter to people — at least, the good and honest ones._

Good and honest…is there really such a thing?

 _Harvey continues to talk. A lot. Donna gets the notion that he's not only cocky but intensely self-absorbed. His life, career and ambitions reign over the conversation, and Donna sits there and listens, completely fascinated, not at all by anything he has to say, but by how_ expressive _he is. Each shift in his emotion displays across his face and wraps into his tone — aggravation, joy, boredom — it's almost perverse how easily she can read him._

 _She thinks of her husband, of his impenetrability and stoicism, and what a relief it is not to have to blindly guess at someone's emotions for once. Sure, Harvey's full of himself, but there's something genuine about him. She sees it in his eyes, how youthful they are in their enthusiasm, how they gleam at her, how they beckon like golden archways into some upside down world where life is full of passion and excitement._

 _She wants so badly to join in. To see the world through those honey colored lenses and believe in a life that's conquerable; a life where losing isn't an option. She wants to convert to him like a religion, and become enlightened by whatever crazy ideology he's preaching. Law? Jazz? Ferragamo ties? Cool. Show her where to sign._

 _She wonders if this was what Alice felt. This warmth at being near him. She can't really define it. She only knows it feels_ right.

" _Okay. Enough about me," Harvey says, startling her. "Let's talk about you."_

" _Ooh, my favorite subject."_

 _She bites the inside of her cheek and tries not to panic. This is it then. The cat has to come out of the bag. She eases her hand into her purse and touches Alice's notebook. This is why she came here, isn't it?_

… _isn't it?_

" _You know what I think?" Harvey's dark eyes bore into hers as if suddenly afflicted by severity. Still, there is the undertone of a boyish grin tugging at his lips, making him look so very untough. "I think your favorite subject didn't come up to me just to find out why I went to trial."_

 _She holds his gaze. The silent exchange feels intensely intimate, and it drives in just how long it's been since someone dared to look her in the eyes. It's like being marred, the way people dodge and divert their glances, as if they're afraid they'll catch sight of her disfigured soul._

 _She doesn't want Harvey to look away. But he will when he finds out. They always do._

 _It's such a lonely way to live. So few people understand the magnitude of her loss, and even fewer know how to have a conversation with her about it. It's so much easier to lie and pretend, to flutter her eyelashes and wear a mask._

 _And what's so wrong with that? Harvey assumes she's just some secretary. Why correct him? Why pull the notebook out and bare her soul? Why make them both uncomfortable? That's not why she came here. That's not why she stepped off that ledge._

 _So why did she?_

 _Is she searching for something? Running away? She doesn't know. All she knows is right now she feels better. Functional. And she doesn't want it to stop._

 _She can't_ afford _for it to stop._

 _Harvey's smile widens. "You want something," he says._

 _She removes her hand from the notebook and grins back at him._

" _I sure do."_

III

 _She doesn't want to sleep with him, and oddly this just solidifies the growing notion that this Donna is perhaps the most beautiful woman Harvey's ever seen._

 _He can't help but stare at her, his eyes tracing the lovely curve of her cheekbones and jaw, and down the delicate tilt of her nose. He takes in her lips as she talks, watching them curl into a mischievous grin that reaches up into her eyes – captivating dark eyes that sparkle with majesty and shine with intelligence. She has eyes that_ know _, that have seen. He is in awe._

 _More than in awe, he is tantalized. His hard-won trust and tendency to keep everyone at arm's length simply doesn't apply to her, for reasons he can't quite understand. There is just something about her, something almost…familiar?_

 _Sadly Harvey is pulled away from the redhead by a man with a job offer. He turns it down, and should probably feel a sense of gut twisting nausea at the loss of a million dollar sign-on bonus, but looking across the bar at his new secretary, he thinks he's gained something far more valuable._

 _A Donna._

 _She doesn't want to sleep with him, but he thinks having her at his desk might be frustratingly better._

IV

" _All right, remember what I said. Eyes on the ball and swing out. We're not chopping wood."_

 _Alice nods and lifts the bat into the air. She bends her knees and juts her elbows out like the baseball guys on TV. The helmet she's wearing is too big and cuts off part of Mr. Gordon Specter's head, but that's okay, because she only needs to see him throw the pitch._

" _Less squat, chuckle head."_

 _Alice straightens and looks up at Harvey for approval._

 _He nods. "Good." Then he shouts across the baseball field: "Okay, old man. Give us one right down the middle."_

 _Mr. Gordon tosses the baseball underhand. Alice holds her breath, closes her eyes and swings with all she has. The bat cuts through empty air, the weight of it sending her into a forward spin. She stumbles a few steps but manages to keep upright._

 _Harvey sighs. "Terrible."_

" _What!" Alice whirls around, frowning. "But I did what you said!"_

" _Don't give her a hard time, Son," Mr. Gordon calls from the pitcher's mound. "She's doing okay."_

" _See," Alice argues weakly, but she feels her face flush in shame. She hates letting Harvey down._

 _Harvey lifts Alice's helmet visor until she is able to meet his eyes. "Do you wanna be okay or do you wanna win?"_

 _Too shy to hold his gaze, Alice stares down at home plate, drawing a line in the dirt with the toe of her shoe. "I wanna win," she mutters._

" _Then Listen. That geezer out there is too soft. He wants to pat your back for participating, but we don't play for hugs and kisses. We play to win. Got it?" He slaps her helmet back down. "Now smash this ball out of the park."_

 _Alice nods to herself, feeling Harvey's words rise up and bubble inside of her. She lifts her bat back over her shoulder and eyes the fence across the field. The distance looks impossibly far away — a million miles, at least. Her palms begin to sweat and her guts feel full of flutterflies._

" _Relax," Harvey whispers. "Eyes wide-open."_

 _Mr. Gordon smiles and nods his head,_ ready? _Alice nods back, the tilt causing her helmet to fall forward. She quickly shoves it up._

 _He tosses the ball. It soars through the air. Harvey says, "Breathe," and she breathes; "Now!" and she swings._

 _She misses but not by much._

" _Dang it!" Alice slams her bat against the plate like a mallet. "What the heck!?"_

 _Harvey chuckles behind her and launches the ball back to his father._

" _Easy, kid," Mr. Gordon shouts. "You'll get your piece."_

" _It's this dumb helmet," she huffs, kicking up dust. "It keeps fallin' in my eyes."_

" _You're not taking it off," Harvey tells her sternly. "Now quit with the excuses. You've got this, just focus."_

 _She turns back to face the mound, lifts her bat, and digs her feet into the dirt, relentlessly determined. She nods at Mr. Gordon and he throws the ball with the same slow, upward toss. Alice watches closely, unblinking, as the ball spins toward the plate. She breathes in the humid summer air, steps forward and swings._

 _The bat connects with a_ clang. _The ball arcs upward, flies over Mr. Gordon and into the crabgrass outside the baseball diamond._

 _Alice drops the bat and leaps into the air with a "whoop!" Harvey catches her under the arms and spins her around, smiling in her favorite kind of way, with all gazillion of his white teeth and crinkles around his eyes. She hugs him around the neck and laughs._

" _I did it, Harvey!" She says. "I did a home run!"_

" _You're goddamn right you did. You smashed the absolute shit out of that ball."_

 _He drops her to the ground and they both jog across the field to join Mr. Gordon on the pitcher's mound._

" _Did you see that?" Alice asks, throwing off her helmet and springing up to give Harvey's dad double high-fives._

" _I saw," he says. "Incredible."_

" _I know. I figured it out. You just gotta keep your eye on the ball. I could hit ten more right now. Easy."_

" _Easy." Mr. Gordon's smile widens. He turns to Harvey and slaps him on the shoulder. "Sounds like your egos wearing off on her."_

" _Mine?" Harvey rumples Alice's red hair, his eyes grinning with affection and pride. "She came like this. Pain in the ass since day one."_

V

 _Cameron Dennis isn't surprised to have termination papers for Harvey's secretary dropped on his desk the Monday following the Russo trial, but he_ is _surprised by who delivers them._

" _I have a request," Donna Martell says, taking a seat in his office. She is different than he remembers, warmer and more approachable, or perhaps it's just the absence of Jonathan's tyrannizing presence that allows her to shine._

" _A request?" The district attorney feigns shock. "This is new. I thought you just blackmailed people to do what you want."_

 _Donna shrugs. "I shouldn't have to use threatening language for you to understand my requests are nonnegotiable."_

" _Of course. Carry on."_

" _You're going to fire Tina." She points at the termination papers. "I've already filled out the paper work. Gross incompetency, which is a gross understatement. Have you_ seen _her filing system?"_

" _I didn't know she had a system."_

" _She does. It's numeric and it's a disgrace."_

" _Right." Cameron signs the termination and tosses it in his processing bin. "Anything else?"_

" _You're going to hire me as Harvey's new secretary."_

This is…unexpected.

 _Cameron cocks an eyebrow. "Why?"_

" _Because."_

 _She stands to leave._

 _Realizing she isn't going to say any more on the subject, Cameron probes, "Forstman wants Harvey. He liked the way the kid handled Russo. I hear he's offering big money."_

" _You think I can't handle Forstman?"_

" _Isn't he a shareholder? I figured he was on your side."_

" _I've resigned from Duke-Sanger."_

" _Interesting." Cameron scratches his mustache. "Well, if it's any consolation, I think you make Charles Forstman look like Mother Teresa."_

" _Best I'm on your side then," she whispers, smiling. Then she winks at him and struts out._

 _Watching her go, Cameron finds himself thinking of Alice. How the kid gave off the same vibrancy. The sun just shone brighter when she was around._

 _He decides then that he likes Donna…in a weird his-balls-are-in-her-hands kind of way._

VI

 _It's been two weeks. Jonathan figured she'd be back by now._

 _He misses her. More than he expected to. He hadn't fully realized just how much of his life she inhabited, or how much she did behind the scenes: pressing his suits, brewing the coffee, paying the bills, cleaning. Donna was the heartbeat of their home and with her gone it decays around him._

 _He'd take the decay, gladly, if he could just get back even the inane pieces of her. Her nonsensical talk when she's tired, those outlandishly erotic love notes hidden in his breast pocket, all 500 million of her elastic hair ties abandoned on whatever surface occurred to her, her toes at their coldest – god, even the scuba diver role play she'd been nagging him about. He'd take it all and cherish it._

 _It's like losing a limb – he has to learn how to function with a huge chunk of himself missing. But he refuses to put in the effort, because she's coming back. She_ has _to come back. Her dresses are here, her Mount Everest pile of fucking shoes. She's a mature, rational adult, she wouldn't just runaway. Yet the days keep slipping by, and he can't keep sitting around waiting for her._

 _Donna is lost to him. He needs to just accept that._

 _Jonathan steps out of the cab at the District Attorney's office. It's crowded this time of day, making it easy for him to slip past the guard. He could have met her in a bar, or at a restaurant, but that would have taken away the element of surprise._

 _He sees her sitting at a cubicle in the front of the office, smiling and talking on the phone. It's a strange picture to take in, because he'd seen Alice sit at this very same desk on occasion. Now both of them are gone. And,_ god _—_

 _God._

 _He wants to fall to his knees. Beg her._ Please. Please come home. Please we can make this work. _But it's only been two weeks and already her eyes are less haunted. Her smile is more genuine. She's out in the world interacting with people, moving forward for once. Can he really take this away from her? Can he actually justify dragging her back, only to let her waste away in their empty house with all its haunted memories?_

 _She's happier here. Whatever this secretary scheme of hers is – it's crazy as hell and it kills him to admit it, but he thinks this may be what she needs._

 _Wordlessly, Jonathan sets the divorce papers on Donna's desk._

 _She hangs up the phone, and slowly lifts her eyes up to meet his._

 _It's in this moment Jonathan realizes the full weight of what he's losing. She is more than his wife, this woman, she is the only person in the entire world who understands him. They share the same demons, and have done things together they will never talk about, not to anyone. He also understands that no amount of marriage counseling could have cured them. There is just too much they can't take back. Too much of each other they can't unsee and unknow. It's like being the kind of soldier where killing becomes as natural as taking a piss. The only way to acclimate back into the civilized world is to get yourself as far away from the trigger as possible._

 _Some people just aren't good for each other._

 _Sometimes love isn't enough._

 _Understanding this, Donna blinks back tears. Then turns her attention to the paperwork before her and signs, putting their marriage to rest. Jonathan tries to stand, straight-backed and at attention, beneath the weight of all of it._

 _It's almost liberating that it should end so peacefully, without any shouting or accusations. After the hell they went through with Alice, Jonathan has no desire to hurt her or to make this any harder than it needs to be – life has dragged them enough._

 _With this surrender, he walks away from Donna, silent and in a daze, his feet carrying him out with desperate quickness. It's the first thing they teach you in the army._

 _Grieve later._

VII

 _She meets those gray eyes over her desk, and the world stops. He came for her. He_ cares _. She didn't think he did, but here he is, and she can't help the light fluttering of anticipation that fills her stomach._

 _She wants to tell him that he was right, that all she needed to rejoin the world was to drag herself back into it. She wants to apologize for being so stubborn, for not calling, for leaving how she did. She'll even go back, she decides, on the condition she keeps her job with Harvey._

 _But he doesn't ask her to come back. He doesn't say anything. He just places a file on her desk, and she knows what it is before looking at it._

 _She goes through all five stages of grief within the span of a heartbeat:_

 _Denial (No. This isn't the end. It can't be.)_

 _Anger (How_ dare _you._ )

 _Bargaining (Please, I can change. I won't leave again.)_

 _Depression (How do I go on from here?)_

 _Then finally, acceptance (We don't work anymore. This is what's best for us.)_

 _She signs. With Jonathan's silent disinterest, it feels less like ending a marriage and more like ending a merger. When he retreats, he doesn't look back. Not once._

 _Donna staggers away from her desk, in a daze, ignoring questions from her colleagues. She makes her way to the bathroom, shuts herself in a stall and cries._

 _She cries and cries. It hurts almost as bad as the morning Alice died, because she's not just losing a marriage or a person, but a piece of herself._

 _She feels so heartbroken for the girl that fell in love with him. How she would melt when he came home from work, lips rising into a grin. How she'd blush when he looked at her, even years after being married, because he made her feel like ten thousand fireworks were shot off inside of her. It's not fair for her to have to lose him too._

 _She squeezes her eyes shut, calming herself by force. She tells herself she can no longer be the woman she was. That she has to let her go..._

 _She buries that broken girl deep. Abandons her in the furthest corner of her mind, along with a pair of children's silver sequence converse, love letters from a gray eyed soldier, the designer dress suits of a COO, and the sound of ivory keys._

 _She buries it all so deep that her lies become sacrament. Because it is either this or that ledge._

 _So when she walks back into that office and sits down at her cubicle she is new. She is whole. She is perfect._

She is Donna.


	17. Love Me How

**A/N: Huge thank you to my beta Kate McK for pulling me out of my pit of writer's block and self-depreciation. And another huge thank you to all of you readers who tweeted/reviewed your encouragements. This chapter wouldn't be up if it wasn't for you guys. Enjoy :)**

* * *

I

Donna tries to sleep.

It really shouldn't be that hard considering all the wine she drank and how long it's been since she's had a decent night's rest, but in her hazy half-drunk state all she seems to do is toss and turn, seeking a peace that's beginning to feel impossibly out of reach.

Her mind keeps pulling her back to the bullpen, forcing her to re-witness her life story told for callous entertainment. She sees it over and over again, obsessively almost. The associates with their sympathetic eyes. Mike and Rachel holding hands as if her matrimonial wounds might infect them. Harvey pinning her against him as she withers and flails, on the verge of a mental breakdown, his arms wound so tightly around her it felt as if he was all that was holding her together.

Donna closes her eyes and for a brief moment she swears she can still feel his fingers, his hands, his mouth. _Did that actually happen?_ Amongst all of the day's occurrences, her moment with Harvey on the rooftop seems the most unreal – a paradisiacal mirage floating in her ever-expanding desert of chaos. It's more likely she's reached such a state of exhaustion and despair she imagined the whole thing.

Does that mean she imagined their moment in the break room too? Or the way he kissed her Friday night? With so much passion only years of longing could account for the way his lips felt against hers. They've always been a quiet fire, a slow burn, sizzling with silent conversations that slink passed, unspoken, yet somehow surrendered in soft smiles and fleeting glances. They are meant to be nothing more than stolen, millisecond dalliances, and now here he is saying too much and acting on impulse, hurdling them toward something Donna's pretty certain she'll never be ready for.

And obviously Harvey isn't ready for it either, because his words are as hollow as ever. _You're not and never will be alone,_ he said, and yet here she is, alone.

She's not surprised. But rather than be bitter and unreasonable about it, she makes excuses for him: the firms on the brink of collapse; her case is escalating in severity; he has no time for the 'comfort thing.' All facts, but they don't quite hold weight she wants them to. It's a song replayed too many times. Over and over and over and over until it hurts your head. The soundtrack of her life. Harvey and the excuses she makes for him.

Well. Maybe she's a _little_ bitter.

Rolling over, Donna kicks the bed sheets off, exposing her naked body to the hot and muggy air. She lifts her heavy eyelids and watches the ceiling fan spin. It clicks and creaks as it rotates – a bad bearing Jonathan would have fixed a long time ago.

She pictures her ex-husband with his too-long hair and pretty gray eyes, standing as he was this morning inside Mike's office, excruciatingly unaffected by her. She doesn't know what compelled her to hug him. But with his arms wrapped lightly around her torso she was overcome with the same sensation she has when visiting her childhood home – strangely contradictory in the way it was both comfortable and confining.

He asked why she left the way she did. It surprised her, because Jonathan has never been the type to bring up long dead subjects. Still, he deserved closure, and because she's a coward she couldn't give it to him. She doesn't think she'll ever be brave enough for the kind of courage it would take to tell him why.

She wishes she could say the answer is complicated, but it isn't. In order to save herself, she had to sacrifice him. Their marriage was a sinking ship and she abandoned it, selfishly leaving him to drown in the wreckage. And he's right, she fought like hell for Alice, but she was too tired, too beaten down, too lost to fight for whatever was left of them to salvage.

Jonathan did nothing wrong, and even if he had, he didn't deserve to be walked out on. He was a good man, a good husband, an okay father. And if she's honest with herself she still loves him and misses him like crazy — she mourns him like she does Alice, irrevocably — but that doesn't change what happened between them.

Donna runs a hand through her hair and sighs. The threads of her mind continue to tangle and twist, pulling her one way and then the other. From one man's arms to the other's. It's countless hours of tug-of-war and her head aches from the mental rope burn. She doesn't know how to let go.

Eventually she gives up on sleep. Out of wine, she slips on a black front-zip cocktail dress and leaves her apartment complex, braving the evening city crowds. Her intention is to make a quick trip to the grocery store, grab a bottle of Chardonnay, and lock herself back inside her bedroom, but the low purr of Midtown is surprisingly serene. She passes up the market and continues down 9th Avenue. It's still hot out, but she keeps to the shady side of the street, weaving her way through pedestrians.

She walks until the sun sets behind the skyline, then further, until her feet ache and her legs nearly give out from under her. She pushes herself all the way to Baxter Street and crosses into Columbus Park, stopping to stand and stare at the still condemned pavilion where she sat with Billy all those years ago.

She finds it strange that this is where it all began, this semblance of a new life. It feels like an eternity has passed since that night, and yet she can still recall, with painful vividness, how broken she had been. Parts of that darker version of herself rise up inside of her. Days where she couldn't feel anything but her own self-loathing, months living with a pain that doesn't dull and the all-encompassing, hateful comprehension of everything she had lost.

Over the past few years she's thought of herself as mostly whole, but standing here, reliving that moment, she realizes this is not at all true. She's been living like a guest inside of herself. Tip-toeing around the walls of a damaged heart, careful not to wake up her sorrows. She hasn't faced her pain; she's only avoided it. It's a festering wound that is beyond her skillset to doctor, so she simply wraps a cheap bandage around it and pretends it isn't there.

Despite protests from her high-heeled feet, Donna continues to walk. She makes it to the end of the street, stopping in front of the bar where she met Harvey. She goes inside. It's dim and dark and she has to blink to orient herself. At the bar, Jay is already mixing her a French 75, and though she'd prefer a neat whiskey, she doesn't correct him.

"It's been a long time since I've seen you," Jay says, pressing a lemon wedge on the brim of Donna's glass as he hands it to her. "I figured you corporate secretaries were too high-class for my shoddy dive bar."

"A dive bar with East River prices." Donna points down at the drink menu in front of her. "I can get a Manhattan for half that in the Financial District."

"Bullshit." He snatches the menu up and grins at her. "Where's your other half?"

"Probably hitting his own bar cart right about now. He breaks out in a sweat if he doesn't get a drink before seven these days."

"Bar cart?" Jay laughs. "So the rumors are true. The son-of-a-bitch finally got his name on the wall."

Donna smiles softly, feeling a sudden swell of pride. "He's managing partner now."

Jay nods. "Good for him. It's not often people get what they strive for out of life."

Donna sips her drink, thinking about the painful truth in his words. She used to have goals as ambitious as Harvey's. She was going to be an actress and part-time pianist, star in _Cabaret_ on Broadway and play Rachmaninoff's _Piano Concerto 2_ at the Cathedral of St. John's. Then, Alice came into the world and she stopped wanting everything. All that really mattered was health, family and happiness. But even that was striving for too much.

Jay — bless him — grabs a bottle of Cognac from the bar rack and tops her up. "You wanna talk about it?" he asks.

"Talk about what?"

"What's got you all wadded up."

"Haven't you seen the news?"

"Jesus. Don't tell me Harvey hired another fraud."

Donna idly swirls her cocktail glass, considering this. Not only is she not accredited by the National Legal Secretaries Association, but she doesn't even have a typing certificate.

"Well," she says wearily, "if you want to get technical."

II

Jonathan sits inside his office at Duke-Sanger, sullenly flipping through his sixty-five page indictment.

Not that it will change anything. There's little that can be done in terms of arguing his innocence. He's guilty and the world knows it. The best attorneys in town have quoted him 25 years if he's lucky, and frankly good fortune isn't something he's ever been particularly blessed with.

"You look tired."

He glances up. Melanie is leaning against the doorway, arms folded across her chest. With her platinum hair, ivory dress and sardonic smile she looks every inch the bitch she's reputed to be. She nods at the indictment. "I'm surprised the DoJ hasn't run out of crimes to charge you with."

Jonathan shifts his stare back to his paperwork. "What do you want, Mel?"

"To talk to you, obviously." She pushes off the door frame and strolls closer. "I suppose you've heard I'm giving testimony."

"I have," he says. "And I'm not surprised. You've always been a backstabbing opportunist."

"Sad." She comes around his desk and perches at the edge beside him. "Pages and pages of sacrifices you made for a woman who left you staring you straight in the face and _I'm_ the backstabbing opportunist."

Anger hits Jonathan hard. As always, there's nothing quite like the feeling of being abandoned and having someone point it out. He sits back in his chair, giving Melanie an unimpressed once-over. "I didn't say you exclusively held the title."

Melanie narrows her eyes. "And what about you? Running to Donna the moment I decide to make a move. I thought we had a strategy."

"Pinning everything on her wasn't part of it."

"Someone has to take the fall."

"Not her."

"Then who?" She cocks an eyebrow. " _You_? Because it sure as hell isn't going to be me. If you back my testimony—"

"I won't betray her."

"God, you're pathetic." She is more aghast than irritated. "What do you think Donna's going to say when I go to her with same offer? That she _loves_ you and would _never_ hurt you to save herself?" She smiles humorlessly and shakes her head. "Even if she does miraculously put you first, we both know Harvey Specter will convince her otherwise."

She makes a valid point. Donna's dynamic with Harvey is dangerous. The Donna he used to know was fiercely independent, but this new Donna is sheepish and hesitant – she has felt the backfire of too many tough decisions gone badly and no longer wants the casualties on her hands. She'll let Harvey calls the shots, and if Melanie were to give the little prick the option, he would delightfully sell his soul to the devil to send Jonathan to the gallows.

Melanie must sense a hint of submission in Jonathan's silence because her expression grows disgustingly smug. "Face it," she says. "You need me."

It really is a gray area. Does he choose self-preservation? Or being loyal to the woman he vowed to honor and protect for all of his days? He doesn't know. But one thing _is_ clear.

"I need nobody."

III

It's late. Donna sits alone at the bar, nursing her fourth tumbler of Cognac. Something inside of her tells her to stop, that chasing a stupor isn't going to solve anything, that what she's doing is self-destructive.

She keeps drinking anyway, because, really, who can be a mature, rational, healthy adult with an exposé on Dateline?

The eleven o'clock news plays on mute behind the bar. The closed caption reads: _major developments in the investigation of the Duke-Sanger Illegal Arms Scandal_. Beside the newscaster is a clip of Jonathan walking out of the New York Supreme Court. He looks calm and in control – bored even – as if he believes the deputy attorney general can't touch him.

Donna knows better. His walk out of the court house isn't a walk of confidence, but one of resignation. He's going to prison, and it's mostly her fault.

 _How selfish can you be that you won't even acknowledge my loss?_

The clip changes. Up pops a picture of Donna and Jonathan at a charity gala. It is probably the only picture in existence where Jonathan is smiling and Donna isn't. She even has a slight scowl on her face, making her look the epitome of a villain – the woman behind the chairman; a real life Cersei Lannister. Her name headlines the news feed in bold, followed by the leading question: _could Martell's ex-wife be the mastermind behind the Duke-Sanger scandal?_

Donna feels sick. Really sick. She staggers away from the bar, ignoring questions from Jay, and stumbles into the single-occupant bathroom. She drops down on her knees and, with the _height_ of class, crawls to the toilet. What comes out of her can't be less than a liter of alcohol. She doesn't know how she's still alive, but she thinks bar-cart-smashing Harvey would be impressed.

Expended, she slumps back against the bathroom wall. The room goes a little fuzzy around the edges, tunnels, kind of spins. She squeezes her eyes shut, realizing, suddenly, that she has no idea what she's doing, or why she's here, or how it all got this bad.

The hollowness of exhaustion stretches over her. All the emotions she's fought to suppress since being subpoenaed sneak passed her crumbling resolve, magnified beyond comprehension. Everything she's done, everything she is, everything she's lost and ruined crashes in on her. Her past, her present, her future. The people she failed. Alice, Jonathan, her parents, Harvey.

She's afraid of what's to come. Not of the possibility of prison, but of being seen by the world for who she is. She tries to think up a way to fix it, but knows she's straw-clutching. Broadcasted all over headline news – her life is too screwed up to fix. She can't escape behind the mask of Donna, secretary extraordinaire anymore. She can't run. God…she can't run. This is her dead-end.

She spirals into a full-blown panic. She's losing it. Losing herself –

No.

No, not losing. This is a resurrection. The pieces of herself she hid away and neglected have broken out of their confines and are out for vengeance. A tyrannous civil war wages through her blood stream. _This is who you are. Accept it._ It pulses through her so loud and so insistent her vessels feel near the brink of bursting from the volume.

Until – quite abruptly – the bathroom door swings opens. Donna blinks through tears, momentarily confused by the presence standing before her.

The facial hair throws her off. She's not used to it, but – god, he looks good with a beard. All rugged and untamed, contrasted by his sharp black suit. And did he actually _kick_ the door in? So dramatic (albeit recklessly unnecessary – surely Jay has a key?). Wait. Wasn't she upset about something?

That's the beauty of being drunk out of your mind – your focus is exceptionally singular.

Harvey helps her off the floor – lifts her, really, because in her woozy unbalanced state she's pretty much dead weight – and pulls her into a tight embrace. She relaxes into him, hiding her face in the hot crevasse at the side of his neck. He smells woodsy, almost like fresh cedar but more exotic. There's a hint of tang. She thinks of bergamot and sandalwood. It's nice…but what's nicer are his fingers sliding through her hair, rubbing gently at her scalp.

He's been talking, but she hasn't been concentrating on the words, just the way he sounds. Calm and solid. She closes her eyes and tries to focus.

"— shouldn't have sent you home alone."

"S'okay," she mumbles. She's somehow lost control of her hands. Bizarrely they've unbuttoned his suit jacket and are now running wild down his chest. The touch is probably pushing the bounds of inappropriate. _Isn't touching him always inappropriate_? She's not doing it on purpose, but it's happening and she doesn't know how to stop it.

"I'm sorry, Donna."

She hums in reply, because all the words knocking around in her head have nothing to do with forgiveness. The hands slide lower, caressing the firm muscles of his abdomen through the cotton of his shirt. She feels his pulse quicken at the base of his neck and turns, letting her bottom lip graze against the thrum. His chest freezes midrise. Her hands inch lower, deciding his shirt would be better off. She needs it off. She takes him by the belt, and –

He pulls back, still holding her by the shoulders, and looks into her eyes. "How much have you had to drink?"

She has to think about this. Four, wasn't it? Who knows. Math is hard. "Not enough," she concludes.

"You do realize I'm holding you up."

"So?" She frowns. "Maybe I just wanna be held."

Harvey chuckles at this, his smile chasing the worry out of his expression. It's nice. To see him smile. Like the world hasn't all gone to shit. "You know, if you keep giving away all your stage secrets I'm going to stop falling for the crocodile tears."

Donna gives him a woozy smirk. "Didn't you just kick the door in?"

"You calling me a sucker?"

"No. I'm calling you chival – chivalr—"

"Come on, you can do it."

"Chivalrous," she says triumphantly.

Harvey grins. So handsome. Donna's fingers twitch at her sides, desperate to touch him again, but – smart man – he still has her pinned. She shuts her eyes and lets her head loll back against the wall. His hold on her lightens and the sound of the facet running breaks the growing silence.

"Harvey."

A warm cloth presses at her temple. "Yeah?"

"What am I gonna do?"

He doesn't reply straight away, too preoccupied with dabbing the sweat off her brow. "You're going to go home and get some rest."

"That's not going to fix anything."

"Neither is getting shit-faced at a dive bar."

Her head snaps forward, throwing him glare. The world goes blurry for a second. "I'm not proud of myself."

"I didn't mean it as a reprimand."

"Hard to tell with that tone."

He sighs. "Look. You wanna sit in this bathroom and cry all night? Fine. I'll sit down and cry with you. But you _have_ to talk to me. You _have_ to tell me what you need. Because I can't help you if you keep shutting me out."

Donna stares at him, hating herself. He doesn't deserve the burden of housing her pain, but being this close to him only makes her longing multiply tenfold. She says, "I just need you." And then her brain catches up to her mouth and she freezes, because no matter how drunk she is, this might be a step too far.

Harvey nods, looking almost relieved. "You have me," he says. "I'm not going anywhere."

She bites her lip, trying to fight off a grin, but she can't hide her blush, the eagerness, that damn _glow_. It's such a minor thing to say, but she feels so much satisfaction hearing it. "Okay," she says, forcing herself to be cool. "Take me home."

And, lo and behold, he hesitates. His face falls, weighted by something that looks a whole hell of a lot like regret. "Donna…"

Hot tears build at the back of her eyes. She shoves him away, staggering and clutching at the wall to keep her balance. "God, you're so full of shit."

"Donna, listen –"

"Spare me the bullshit, Harvey."

He steps forward, extending his hand to help her keep upright. She bats it away.

"Will you _stop_? You can't just touch me whenever you feel like it."

He glares at her. "I don't touch you a _fraction_ of how often I feel like it, and if you'd stop cutting me off I could finish telling you that your _mom's_ here."

Donna licks her lips. Only fraction? Obviously he…

Wait.

"Did you say my _mom's_ here?" She blinks at him. "Like here in New York?"

"Like _here._ At the _bar_."

Her stomach lurches. She shakes her head. "No."

"She was at the office when Jay called. I didn't know what to do. I panicked."

"Harvey." The world spins. She grips the sink, dizzy.

"She doesn't seem upset."

"She's _always_ upset."

"It'll be fine."

"Are you kidding? I'm practically America's Most Wanted right now. What the hell am I going to say to her? Hi Mom – I always wanted my name in lights, now there it is, on every fucking channel." Her stomach spasms. She leans over the sink, holding down a reflexive heave. Harvey pulls her hair back and runs a smoothing hand over her back.

"It'll be fine," he repeats. There is a pitch of authority in his voice. He thinks she's being overdramatic.

But he doesn't get it. Her mother would sell her soul to save face. Having a criminal for a daughter will be such a smudge on her pride. She can't bear to see her disappointment.

"I can't face her," she whispers sadly.

Harvey's face softens. He lets her hair loose, his hand lingering to brush a stray tear from her cheek. She hadn't realized she'd been crying. "Okay," he says. "I'll sort it out."

IV

When Harvey returns from the bathroom, he finds Donna's mother sitting at the bar, sipping a cocktail and watching the news overhead. "I wanna blame him," she says, glaring at Jonathan's face on the screen. "He knew better, but the stupid boy could never figure out how to say no to her."

"They were backed into a corner." Harvey doesn't know whether he's defending Donna or Jonathan, but he knows their decisions weren't made lightly. Irrationally, maybe, but who can be rational with a dying child?

Mrs. Donovan's bright eyes slide over him, probably thinking he's just as stupid. Maybe he is.

"So," she says. "How is she?"

"Drunk."

"That's what I thought. Here, I got you these." She tosses something underhand at him. It pelts him on the chest and falls on the counter. A bag of pub mix. Starved, he takes a generous handful and leans next to her against the bar.

"I'm surprised you didn't waltz in after me."

"You told me not to. And you seemed to have it handled. Kicking the door in like that." She smiles fondly at him. "I'm sure she loved it, the drama queen. Gimme a pretzel."

He holds his hand out and lets her pick through the snack mix. He says, "She's not herself."

"Alcohol will do that to you."

"It's not just the alcohol." He wants to tell her about the roof. How Donna had run to the very edge and stared down. He keeps telling himself she just needed air, but there was something in her eyes that scared the shit out of him. "I'm worried about her."

Donna's mother sighs, letting the weary look of age wash over her. "I'm worried about her too. But if you ask me, she hasn't been herself for a very long time."

"Since Alice?" Harvey guesses.

"She finally told you, did she?" She studies Harvey with a strange interest, as if seeing him for the first time. ". "It's terrible," she says, "to have lost so much. It's unfair and heartbreaking. But what Donna doesn't realize is that it's okay to keep living. What she's doing here – working these crazy hours, staying single, avoiding family and old friends –it's a refusal to move forward. She plays it safe. She chooses nothing. She stays the same." Mrs. Donovan stands, pulls a twenty out of her wallet and set it on the counter next to her empty drink. "Tell her I love her, okay?"

Harvey straightens. "You're leaving?"

"I know when I'm being avoided."

Oddly, he doesn't want her to go. With Donna acting so very un-Donna, she is the closest thing he has to a moral compass. He can't do this alone – he needs to be led.

"Relax, Harvey," she says. A mind reader. Of course it's genetic. "I have a room at the Sheraton. If she truly goes pedal to the metal on this binger, call me. Otherwise I'll deal my discipline tomorrow. There's no point in a good scolding if it goes unremembered." She takes him by the arm and with a gentle, soothing squeeze, she adds, already turning to leave, "Try to keep it together. She needs to know she can rely on you."

He watches her back until she is out of sight.

V

Harvey knows Donna is sobering up by the amount of distance she puts between them.

She sits on the far side of the cab and pretends to sleep the whole way back to her apartment. When they get to 34th, she walks ahead of him into the building, and doesn't say a word in the elevator. It's a tense, uncomfortable silence they've never had before.

Harvey watches her discretely in the elevator mirror. She's looking down, eyes distant, lost in thought. He tries to recall the happy, confident woman of the past thirteen years and can't; this is another person.

Weird, how much you can miss someone when they're standing right next to you.

She unlocks the door, letting them into the hall foyer. She doesn't bother turning on the lights, and Harvey is left maneuvering clumsily through foreign space, his palm feeling the walls, a blind man, fumbling for anything to guide him.

There is the sound of keys hitting a hard surface, then, "I'm going to take a shower."

He finds a dial switch and presses it in. The living room illuminates with a soft glow. Donna has already disappeared down the hall, a door clicking shut at her back. It feels to Harvey that there is some unarticulated dispute between them, but, as usual, he's oblivious to what it is.

He hangs his suit jacket over a dining chair and pulls his tie loose. He paces the kitchen, examining her things, but not really seeing them, annoyed by his own nervous energy.

It used to be so easy, the two them. Being with Donna was like breathing, effortless; he never really had to think about it. She was defined in his head, collegially off limits (by her decree and his silent relief) and maybe they flirted on occasion, but there were lines, blurred, but distinct enough to keep them from tripping too hard when they crossed them.

Now their blurred lines have become more like trip wire, a mine field of thirteen years' worth of shit kicked under the rug. He feels an explosion coming, rumbling like an earthquake through his bones; they are two tectonic plates, scraping against each other, trying to come together but somehow causing nothing but destruction in the process.

"Are you hungry?"

Harvey blinks and looks up. Donna is standing in front of him, tying off her white silk bathrobe. There is something about seeing her just out of the shower that swallows his heartbeat: bare faced, wet hair, glowing skin. She looks almost celestial.

He clears his throat. "Sorry?"

"Are you hungry?" she repeats. "I have some left over Chinese in the fridge."

"Oh. No. I…I'm alright."

Silence. Donna leans against the kitchen counter, twisting her wet hair to the side. Harvey stares at her, trying to gauge her mood. Not as tense as earlier, but still not entirely herself. It's almost like a piece of her has gone missing.

"How are you feeling?" he asks.

"Tired," she says and sighs, glancing up at him. The soft kitchen light makes her eyes glitter, two dark black pools that show nothing below the surface. She really is beautiful. "Just tired."

"Come on," he says. "Let's get you to bed."

He extends his hand to her. She stares at it, uncertain. He feels like she's a wild animal he's trying to coax out of the bushes. He wonders if she's afraid of how he feels. Or maybe she's afraid of how she feels – _does she even feel anything?_ He thinks he should be patient and wait, hand outstretched, letting her come as close as she dares on her own terms. But Harvey's never been a very patient man, and one of them has to take the damn initiative.

He tugs her into his arms. She folds sadly around him, her face pressed into his shoulder. Close as they are, he still feels a disconnection, like there a forbidden denseness in her, a wall impossible to scale. He says, "C'mon, I'll swaddle you like a baby and recite Shakespeare."

"Verbatim?" she murmurs.

"How else?"

She pulls back from his shoulder, gauging his sincerity. "I'm going to need something other than the balcony scene, Romeo."

Ah. _There she is_.

He grins, and then, in a deep, refined voice: "If I profane with my unworthiest hand, this holy shrine –"

"Ooookay," she cuts off, suddenly uncomfortable, "you've made your point."

"The gentle sin is this: –"

" _Harvey_."

He steps closer, touching her hair with his free hand, watching a deep blush rise against her cheeks. "My lips, –"

"Oh god."

"Two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss."

Her lips rise into a smile. It's his smile, soft and coy. He wants to guard it. Protect it from all that threatens to weigh it down.

"If you're trying to put me to sleep," she says, "that's not the way to do it." Her low, slightly husky voice sends a chill up his spine, makes him a little hard.

"I'm just trying to get you into bed," he says.

She quirks an eyebrow. "Then you better swaddle me good."

"And why is that?"

"You're a smart, Harvard educated lawyer." She steps out of his arms, her fingertips sliding lazily down his chest as she goes. "I'm sure you can figure it out."

He wants to kiss her. Needs to. It's an aching hunger, almost manic, this craving to feel her lips. He finds himself unintentionally leaning in, practically begging her to close the gap.

She gets nervous again. He can tell by the way she's studying him – skeptical, skittish. She steps further away, just out of his reach. And –

Fuck. Her robe. It's dropped to the side, exposing neck, collarbone, and some of what's beneath. He sees the pale pink of her nipple, can tell it's hard. The arousal that hits him is so sudden and intense he feels like he might blackout from the blood rush. And because he's a massive pervert, he doesn't say anything, he just gapes. Like he's never seen a tit in his life. Like he's a virgin, instead of a man well into his middle ages. He's certainly never been this desperately hard, not even as a teenager. God knows how long it's been since he's had one out. It feels like years. He's pulled taunt, near breaking.

He has to get out of here.

"Donna." He forces himself to look up.

She notices something. She narrows her eyes a little. Why does he have to be so damn obvious?

"Listen. Maybe this isn't a good idea, you know, after Fri –"

"Okay."

She doesn't look angry, or annoyed, or anything he might have expected. He can't read the look on her face, but if he had to guess, he'd call it indifference.

"Okay," he repeats. He leaves his coat, and heads straight for the door.

"You're not going to kiss me before you leave this time?" she says suddenly.

Harvey's hand freezes halfway to the door handle. He turns around slowly.

Her coal-black eyes bore down on him, challenging almost. He thinks the shear heat of her gaze might evaporate him.

"If I kiss you," he says, "I'm not leaving."

She looks him up and down, lingering insufferably long at crotch-level, before finally meeting his gaze. "I don't believe that," she concludes.

So fucking smug.

He glares at her. These past few days he's let himself be vulnerable in a way he never has before. He's laid himself bare, rolled over, belly up. How dare she act like he's the one turning his back when she so blatantly pushes him away?

Something inside him snaps _._ He crosses the room in two quick strides. Donna steps back, eyes wide with surprise, bumping against the console table, until she is back against the wall, pinned. "Yes, you do," he says. She is so close he can feel her body heat, smell the scent of her shampoo, feel the rise and fall of her chest. His body trembles with the sudden adrenaline, his heartbeat violent. "That's why you pulled away when I kissed you, isn't it? You can't keep playing it safe if I'm all in."

She narrows her eyes, and in an effort to regain control, leans closer, her face less than an inch from his. "You should go."

"Love me how, Donna?"

"Wha—"

" _Love me how?"_ he demands.

She searches his eyes, appalled by the sudden shift in roles. "How am I supposed to answer that?"

"With the truth."

"And then what? You take me into your arms? Piece my world back together? I can't be _fixed_ , Harvey."

This throws him. "Why the hell would I want to fix you?" he asks. "You're sad, not broken."

"You only think that because you don't see _me_. You see your secretary, a woman that's always been able to give you everything you need. But outside the firm…" she lets the thought dangle. "I don't think you realize it, because you've never committed long enough, but when you enter into a relationship with someone, you take on the weight of that other person's life. I lost my daughter. I left my husband. Let that sink in."

He won't let it sink in. He can't. To win this fight he has to keep his momentum. He takes a step back, pretending to consider her words. "So you want me to back off?"

"I want you to be realistic," she says, her voice taking on a disarming softness. "If we went for it, we'd lose it. And I think it's only as hard as it is because we never tried, but the moment that we do, this will be gone."

" _This_ is bullshit." He slams his palm against the wall beside her. "Fuck _this_. It isn't good enough for me. Not anymore."

"Harvey." She grips his shoulder with a trembling hand. He must seem manic to her – a wild animal the magnificent Donna is unequipped to tame. The thought makes him feel deliciously powerful. "Just stop. Okay? You're tired —"

"God, _yes_. " He pulls back, running his own tremulous hand runs a hand over his face. "Yes, Donna. I'm tired. I'm tired of feeling sad, mad and heartbroken over a relationship I don't even _have_."

"I can't give you what you _need_."

"How about you stop caring about what _I_ need. Because I got what I need, right here. And I'm not going to lose another decade or another year. Not another minute of you. Not if I don't have to."

She shakes her head; she won't hear it. She shuts her eyes as if to make him disappear.

But he won't back down. He can't do it anymore; this day-in-day-out routine of hiding from how he feels, avoiding the truth, bottling his emotions.

A mad impulse takes hold. He takes her by the waist and pulls her closer. His hands, set free, move up her body, needing to feel all of her. More, more, more. He can't stop. He just can't stop. He's never felt so frustrated, so helpless, so desperate. He can't get close enough.

A whimper escapes from the back of her throat. She turns away, clinging to her guard, her goddamn Berlin wall, but her hands are sliding down his chest with the same frantic urgency. They stop at his belt, excruciatingly close to the aching bulge in his trousers. He can't suppress his groan. God, _please_.

"You want more," he whispers. "I know you want more."

* * *

 **A/N** : I should probably apologize for this cliffhanger, but instead I'll just make it up to you guys in the next chapter.

Again, I can't thank those of you who sent me encouraging tweets/reviews enough. I know this was a long time coming, but I hope the length and content of this chapter makes up for that. I appreciate all those that keep reading and sticking with me through this crazy tale. Not a lot left, but what's coming is pretty climactic. Stay tuned, and as always, reviews mean the world 3

* * *

 **-To reply to a couple of guests -**

Zed - I have plans for resolution between Jonathan and Donna, or at least a confrontation about how things ended. As far as an alternative ending fix, if you're not happy with how it ends, I'm open to it

My Arrival Reviewer - I'm so grateful you pointed that movie out to me. And yes, lets be friends!

Joshliza shipper - You're rants make me smile, and yes, I totally agree with your views on Suits. And as I've told others, if you need a J/D alternative ending fix, I'm open to it.

FB Requester - ;) we'll see


	18. Contradictory At Best

**Warning:** This chapter is very much M-rated. If that's not your thing, I've made it so this chapter can be skipped without any discrepancies in the plot.

* * *

I

Donna shuts her eyes tight, feeling a sudden onset of lightheadedness as if she's standing at the peak of some great precipice. A mountain, scaled for thirteen years, and now Harvey is pushing her toward the cusp, upsetting their delicate balance, leaving her teetering, weak-kneed at the very edge.

She doesn't want to fall.

No, what she'd very much like is to back-pedal, to take back this entire night. Her heart hammers inside of her chest – _undo, undo, undo._

Harvey presses forward. Donna turns her head away, refusing to look at him. She tells herself this is just a body breathing lust up her neck, nothing more. She holds her guard, locks her heart. But he is whispering in her ear, "You want more," and his fingertips are trailing fire down her spine. Her heart skips, beats out a different tune – _more, more, more._

His hands slide lower, following the curve of her ass, fitting her against him, close enough that she can feel a distinct hardness. Heat flares up between her legs. The silk of her robe is not enough of a barrier…but _christ_ _,_ it's too much of one. She shifts, instinctively trying to angle her hips closer, until he is pressed against that desperate ache at her center.

The tiniest of moans escapes Donna's lips. She makes the mistake of meeting Harvey's eyes. The warm brown of his irises are just a rim, surrounding pupils black and blazing with need. Her guard shatters, hits the tiled floor, and god, oh god, oh —

Fuck it, fuck _this_ , fuck everything.

She grabs Harvey around the neck and pulls him into a kiss. He responds immediately, opening up to the thrust of her tongue, kissing her back with a greed and possession that is _nothing_ like the last time. It is all tongue and teeth and an emotion somewhere between madly in love and unable to stand each other. There is no rhythm or synchronicity between them; it's just him taking and her taking, too lost in the moment to think of anything but their own pleasure.

Clumsily they maneuver to the bedroom, desperate, urgent, not losing a second of body contact. The back of Donna's legs hit the bed. Her fingers have already worked loose the buttons of Harvey shirt and are gliding over his chest and ribs, drinking in a body borne of years of boxing and morning runs. The surreal feeling of his skin sliding under her fingertips is almost too much for her. She sinks down onto the bed, and stares up at him. He seems very tall suddenly.

Harvey meets her eyes, and she senses the same apprehension edging into his lust. There are a thousand reasons why they shouldn't do this — a thousand reasons Donna recklessly decides to throw into the abyss. What's one more bad decision? She'll be in prison by the end of the month anyway.

She stands up, reaches for the tie of her robe and slowly pulls it loose. Harvey's gaze dips down to her plunging neckline, taking in her almost bared body. She lets the robe slip from her shoulders and fall to the floor.

" _Donna_ ,"he breathes out.

She tips his chin up and presses a kiss to his half-open lips. It's tender, patient. There is no impulsivity or frenzied lust to blame it on.

Harvey wraps an arm around her back and carefully pushes her down onto the bed, a knee sinking in between her legs as he crawls on top of her.

Donna's hands glide over his chest, reveling in the way his muscles tense beneath her touch. She pushes his shirt off his shoulders, breaking away from his lips to kiss along his jaw and neck, sucking at his pulse point.

Harvey's head falls forward, cheek next to hers, his four-day's worth of scruff tickling her neck. She rolls her hips, rubbing deliciously up the bulge straining against his trousers. A groan of the purest need escapes him, followed by a quiet _fuck_ that makes her throb. He responds with a thrust of his own, their bodies grinding together. The fabric that bars him from her is quickly becoming an exquisite form of torture.

She reaches for his zip, but he catches her wrist and pins it above her head.

"Harvey," Donna half whimpers, half hisses. "Clothing is becoming an issue."

He pulls back, looming over her, the muscles straining in his forearms and a surprisingly intense look on his face. "Just you," he says.

She tries to process this, but is jolted by the feel of his free hand, warm and heavy, sliding up her left side. He takes her breast in his palm and gently squeezes, his thumb brushing over the extra-sensitive skin of her nipple. The touch makes her gasp and tense up.

He dips back down and kisses her — slow, thorough, unhurried — then he is breaking off, trailing kisses down her neck, along her collarbone, over the swell of her neglected breast. His tongue circles languidly around the aroused nipple before he takes it into his mouth and sucks.

Donna's back arches and her heels dig into the bed. Each flick and jab of his tongue elicits a tremble and moan, making her practically wither beneath him. He continues to grind against her, his erection pressing at her center. She imagines her wetness coating his slacks, leaving a sodden trail up his length and wonders for half a second how she's going to explain this to the dry cleaner.

Harvey's hand slips off her breast, sliding lower, over the tense muscles of her stomach and down, and —

She throws her head back and tangles her fingers in the bed sheets. Harvey pulls away from her chest and kisses her fiercely on the lips, his fingers stroking circles at her clit.

"I'm _…"_ she gasps.

He increases his pressure, rubbing in quick, calculated loops that make Donna's toes curl. Her muscles quiver and her breath comes out in a fervent pant. "Close," she breathes.

He slows. His fingers run up and down her lips, brushing at her entrance. She angles her hips, trying to get him _in_ , but he slides deliberately over.

She can't take it. She _needs_ him, desperately.

"Harvey," she begs. " _Please._ "

Harvey removes his hand from her sex and cups her chin. Donna's eyes zero in on him. "I want to," he starts, then stops. She can feel him searching, hesitant, shy, lacking the right words, not wanting to offend her. "But I need to hear you say it."

Donna smiles softly and captures his lips in a slow, passionate kiss. "Fuck me," she breathes into his mouth, her tongue following as she deepens the kiss. She breaks off with a moan as two fingers push inside of her, inch by excruciating inch, until his palm is pressed against her clit. She rocks with his fingers, riding against his cupped palm. The pleasure spreads throughout her entire body with each brush of his hand. Her mind blanks; she is nothing but her body. She arches underneath him, nipples grazing his chest, and then suddenly he is back at her breast, licking and sucking…

" _Harv—_ " she gasps, bucking against him, her sex clenching around his fingers. He keeps moving, working her all the way through her orgasm, making her shudder through the aftershock.

He doesn't stop.

He kisses down the sensitive skin of her chest, passed her stomach and over the crest of her hip bone. His lips ghost over her heat and his eyes meet hers, warm and brown and full of unconcealed lust.

Donna gives him a fervent nod, needy fingers already tangling in his hair, urging him down.

His tongue slides up her slit, delving toward her core. She whimpers, her flesh still over-sensitive and tries instinctually to pull away, but he pins her hips down and continues to lap at her.

"Wait," she breathes, withering, her thighs closing around his ears. He spreads her back open and pushes his tongue in deeper, licking feverishly. Donna digs her heels into the bed with a curse, but after a few agonizing seconds the pain is replaced by _intense_ pleasure. She comes _again_ , her body quivering, her moans almost turning into screams. It is either the longest orgasm she's ever had or two back to back.

She falls back heavily on the bed, breathing in huge gulps of air.

Harvey's head comes to a rest against her leg, which she has unconsciously draped over his shoulder. He presses a light kiss at her thigh. "You okay?"

"Mmm," she says, running her fingers languidly through his hair, nails scraping against the scalp, practically petting him."I forgot how good you are with your tongue."

Donna expects an arrogant quip back, but is met with silence. She lifts herself on her elbows and finds him staring, serious, solemn – and so _tense_. She blames the beard. "I haven't forgotten about you, Harvey," she says, grabbing his bicep and trying to coax him back on top of her. He doesn't budge.

"'Fuck me' wasn't what I was asking you to say."

Donna, fully aware of what he was asking, tries not to roll her eyes. How very like him to want to finish an argument. She sighs, wondering how far this is going to go. "I shouldn't have to say it."

"Right." He stands up abruptly. The sudden movement makes Donna a little dizzy. Perhaps she's still drunk. "So it's okay for you to demand it out of me when you won't even answer for yourself?"

She doesn't take her eyes off of him as she says, "Yes."

"How is that fair, exactly?"

"Because I've been saying it every goddamn day for years," she snaps, a reckless little intensifier. She doesn't want to fight anymore, but she can't seem to stop the words from leaking out. There's a terrible new freedom in the air. "All the times I've put you first I have _said_ it."

"Bullshit. You put me first because you're afraid of putting yourself first."

 _This_ comes out of nowhere, and is probably closer to the truth than Donna will ever admit. She should feel vulnerable being naked with all this honesty and anger being thrown around, but this isn't his office or a court room. This is her bedroom and within these walls she's the boss, the judge, the jury. He's not winning this one; she won't say her lines.

She waits for him to go on, to go on being angry, to keep pressing, but he just sighs. He seems very tired suddenly, and more defeated than she's seen him in a long time. A pang of sadness hits her, followed by the overpowering urge to take his hand and lead him towards the truth he seeks, to collaborate with him, even at her own expense.

"I want more," she admits, and it feels wrong, just as it did that night in his office, like she has no right to lust for another life after losing the one she had. "But that doesn't mean –"

" _Donna,"_ he warns.

"It _doesn't_ mean I believe we'll work."

Despite his irritation he seems to consider this carefully. "So you have faith in me in everything but this?"

"It's not you I don't have faith in. After everything that happened with Jonathan and Alice…"

How does she explain this? That she's full of bad experiences. That her past has chains around her ankles, so tight it cuts off circulation. That she'd rather the slow death of loving him from afar than have him chained up with her. She has enough staining her conscience; she loves him too much to allow these ghosts to haunt him too.

"You're afraid," he finishes for her. "But what you're afraid of has already happened to you."

"And that makes me immune, does it?" She rises to her feet. "Lost a child, can't possibly lose another. Failed a marriage, left my husband – glad I got all that out of my system."

"Donna, I'm asking you to love me back. That's all."

"And I do. You _know_ I do."

"Then why won't you say it?"

"Because I don't want to mislead you," she says, helplessly, tired of circling the subject. "I told you, I love you like a–"

He waves her down. "I can _literally_ still taste your pussy in my mouth, so if you're about to tell me you love me like a brother or a cousin, you've got a fucked up notion of family."

She looks at him, surprised, her hindbrain latching on to "pussy" said as if it was common court room vernacular. She's not sure if it's the context or the raw emotion, but it excites her, softens her like a kiss between the legs. "I didn't ask you to go down on me," she breathes out.

"No." He steps up to her, his lips so close she can almost taste them, almost taste _herself._ "You _begged_ me to."

Her eyes flutter closed. A strange arousal pools in her stomach; she has no idea what the hell is wrong with her. She licks her lips, swallows, attempts to keep the tremble out of her voice. "I'm done talking."

"Good."

He pushes her down onto the bed, the frame creaking as he drops on top of her. He grabs her face and kisses her hard, his teeth scraping briefly across her bottom lip, his tongue slipping inside. She kisses him back with just as much hunger, sucking the taste of herself off of his tongue, her fingers working past his belt, his button, the zip.

She reaches into his pants and strokes him through the thin cotton of his boxers, drawing her fingers across the underside of his length. Harvey lets out a soft groan, and then suddenly he is grabbing her by the waist and flipping them around.

She straddles him, takes him in, eyes gliding covetously over the broad expanse of his chest, his scruffy face and messy hair, his beautiful brown eyes.

Harvey.

Jesus Christ _Harvey._ This can't be real. She's lost her mind, and clearly he's lost his too. But god, they've already come this far, why stop?

"Take your pants off," she demands, getting onto her knees so that he can lift his hips.

He does what he's told, silent and eager. Completely at her mercy. It's as if he exists just to please her and that thought alone, the _power_ it entails, is almost enough to make her come again.

He springs free and she immediately takes him into her hand, slowly pumping, her thumb teasing the dripping tip. The sound he makes, a low throaty moan, radiates straight to Donna's core. His hands grip her thighs, curling and twitching, a mix of pleasure and frustration playing across his face. He's already close.

She stops stroking him and leans a hand on his chest, using the other to guide him inside.

He stops her, a hand cupping her chin to draw her up to his half-lidded gaze. "You sure?"

"I…"

Is she?

No. No, not at all. She's scared and worried and feeling so damn broken – there's no room in her for certainty. But the one thing she is sure of? The world is crashing down around her; she can no longer tip-toe safely passed unscathed, she needs to _run_.

She slowly sinks down, taking him inside of her. As deep as he will go, until there's nothing left of her inside: just him – strong and warm and whole and yes – _yes_ , _this._

She falls forward on all fours, her hair cascading down, surrounding her and Harvey like a silk curtain. They lock eyes and for a fraction of a second time freezes, the world skids to a halt.

She smiles. His warm browns smile back, lips curling into a lazy, sultry smirk.

"Crazy?" he breathes.

"Crazy," she agrees.

"But I feel amazing, right?"

She laughs, softly. Still an idiot. "Yes, Harvey, you feel amazing."

"Good," he whispers, shutting his eyes. There's a look of pure ecstasy on his face; Donna's pretty sure it's the sexiest thing she's ever seen.

She lowers her mouth to his and kisses him deeply. He moves inside of her, slow and deliberate; she matches his rhythm, rolling her hips with each glorious thrust. Arousal ebbs – it's less desperate than before, more controllable. She tries to ignore it and focus on him.

"I'm not gonna last," he admits, his voice oddly strained.

"Don't worry," Donna whispers against his lips. "I wasn't expecting you to."

As if permitted, Harvey grabs her hips and drives himself deeper. The fullness, the _stretch_ of it, makes her moan and fall against him. He pulls out a little and thrust back in. The bed creaks. She grips his shoulder, the headboard, trying to keep steady, because he is wild, fucking her fast and hard, deep and almost frantic. It's like he's trying to split her in two, and that's _exactly_ what she needs.

He pulls out. Lets himself cool. In the intermission, he gives attention to her breasts, taking a nipple into his mouth while palming the other. Donna's body starts to quiver. Her delighted moans become sharper, more anguished and desperate.

Harvey starts again, pushing himself in slowly. A knuckle brushes against Donna's clit and she clenches and cries out, which makes him groan and slam into her. The head of his dick touches an end, and there's a sharp brief pain and then total pleasure.

She comes with a sob, her whole body shaking as her orgasm rips through her. Her joints give and she collapses into him. He wraps an arm around her and holds her tight against his chest, thrusting in deep — once, twice and then stays there, shuddering with her.

Gradually the pleasure recedes and reality trickles back in, so much like the rise and fall of a tide. Donna rolls over, exhausted, feeling sex seeped and wrung out.

Harvey's hand finds her fingers and grips them. They lay in silence, side by side, breathing heavily, eyes fixed on the ceiling, trying to regain themselves.

"So…" Harvey says after a while. He sounds hoarse.

Donna turns and finds him watching her intently. "So?"

"What do you think? Better with whipped cream or without?"

She smiles despite herself. "It's definitely more intense without."

Harvey lifts himself onto an elbow and leans down to kiss her. She touches his face, fingertips scraping lightly against his beard, comforted by his smell and the way his lips move against hers. For half a heartbeat she allows herself to sink into the rosy effusion of blissful ignorance. She imagines falling without hitting ground, a heart without ache, happiness that doesn't slip so easy through her fingers. She sees him being the future she is so afraid of, and thinks maybe she could find a way to believe in it.

"I have faith in you," Harvey whispers, surprisingly in tune with her thoughts. It's as if he's suddenly _seeing_ her. "If you want this, we can make it work."

Donna nods silently, but for some inexplicable reason she is hit by a sudden and terrible anxiety about whether or not there's milk in the fridge. And if there isn't, will he be disappointed? Does she have it in her to go out and get some? Will he still love her when all she has to give is gone? She doesn't think he will.

Donna turns and stares at the ceiling. Her heart slams against her ribcage – _undo, undo, undo._

* * *

 **A/N:** Sorry this chapter was short and took me over a month to post. You guys deserve better, and I'm so grateful to those of you still reading and sending me kind words/reviews about my writing.

I owe Kate McK a huge thanks for having faith in me and fixing all of my mistakes. I wouldn't have had the guts to post this chapter without her. And a thanks to BMBR for cheering me on and listening to my rants.


	19. These Violent Delights (Part 1)

**I**

Harvey wakes to the ringing of his cell phone.

In his arms Donna is fast asleep, motionless, her breath a warm wisp against his neck. It's disorienting. He's had this same dream so many times it makes waking up to the sea of red hair and the thin freckled arm hanging limp across his chest oddly natural.

Slowly – reluctantly – he slides off the bed and tiptoes over to his discarded trousers. The care he takes is probably lost on her. He doubts a grenade going off in the closet could get her out of bed.

He fishes his phone out of his pocket. Mike. He picks up. "Yeah?"

"Where are you?" the kid asks. His tone is accusing. Harvey hasn't bothered to check the time, but he's willing to bet he's missed more than a few morning appointments.

Harvey glances out the window. Beyond the stretch of cranes in the harbor yard the Hudson looks as blue as the sky. "Midtown West."

"Midtown West? What the hell are you –" Mike pauses. Lets it register. Whatever conclusion he reaches, he's smart enough to keep it to himself. "Listen, Harvey, we need to talk. Can you meet me at the court house in half an hour?"

"Yeah. But make it an hour," he says, his eyes shifting to the sleeping redhead. "I have something I need to take care of first."

Harvey hangs up, quickly puts on yesterday's suit, and sets a pot of coffee brewing. Then he sits at the edge of the bed, right beside her, and gently brushes the hair away from her face. She stirs, shifts a little, and then freezes, probably remembering last night, realizing the hand combing through her hair is _his_ hand.

Part of him wants to have an honest conversation about what happened. He has so many questions: Did you like it? Now that you're not drunk, was it what you wanted? Are we going to do it again? Another part of him is so sure it was all a huge mistake, it's all he can do not to bolt and run like hell for a taxi.

Donna's eyes flutter open. The morning light makes her irises look warm and soft. Harvey trails his knuckles across her cheek, thinking there is no way he can leave. What is there in all of Manhattan — in the whole world — that beats this?

"Did someone call?" she asks, her voice raspy with sleep.

"Mike. He wants me to meet him at the court."

"To hell with Mike," she murmurs, wiggling around beneath the sheets. "Get back in bed."

A broad smile breaks across Harvey's face. He knows he looks almost too happy but he can't control his beaming. And, okay, "get back in bed," isn't code for "I love you," but he's afflicted by this sudden insatiable desire he has for her. He needs her so pathetically, he'll gladly take the table scraps.

He lifts the sheets and, wingtips and all, slides into bed. She burrows a little closer and lets him put his arms around her. He presses his lips to the top of her head, breathes her in.

"Why the court house?" she asks.

He holds her tightly to him and runs his fingers through her silky hair. "I don't know."

"You didn't think to ask?"

He shrugs.

She touches his chin, the pads of her fingers graze across the stubble along his jaw, urging him to look at her. "You really are bad at this," she says, giving him an amused, sleepy smile.

"Sorry. I'm not exactly a cuddler by nature."

"I'm talking about juggling the comfort thing with the attorney thing."

"I know," he admits. "I'll work on it. But if something's going to suffer in the interim, it won't be this." Her smile fades. She's getting nervous again, he can tell. He tries to make light of it: "But in my defense, you're the one who told me to get back in bed."

"I didn't think you actually would." She pushes up onto an elbow. The sheet that covers her slips down exposing her bare breasts. Harvey's tongue tingles with the memory of how amazing it felt to taste her soft flesh. He swallows, forcing himself to lift his gaze and only gets as far as her lips.

He can kiss her, can't he? He did it so freely last night. But for some reason he feels they've become entangled in a sudden stunted intimacy. He hesitates among the many emotions she seems to be presenting. Affection, reluctance, desire, regret. He has no idea what the hell she wants, but he knows if he continues holding back it might be another thirteen years before he gets the chance to kiss her again. Maybe double that. Maybe never.

He leans in. The look that breaks across her face as she pulls back is beyond humiliating.

Harvey sighs, giving her the full extent of his heartbreak through the pathetic little huff. "Back to square one, are we?"

"I'm naked in your arms," she says. "This is hardly square one."

"But no kissing?"

"Not with that morning breath."

Harvey gives her a level look and humorless smile. "C'mon, after all of that snoring and drooling I endured from you last night, you can put up with my breath."

Donna hums and crawls into his lap. She takes his jaw into her hands and tips his face up, forcing him to look at her. "And to think I called you chivalrous last night."

"Was that what you were getting at with all that drunken slurring you were doing?"

She chuckles. There's a sexy little rasp to it. "You want me," she says softly, running her thumb over his bottom lip.

 _More than anything._ Harvey closes his eyes and relaxes into her hands. "Yes."

She leans closer, lips next to his ear. Her scent is intoxicating. "Well then," she whispers, "what are you waiting for?"

Harvey slides his hand around her neck and pulls her in. He catches a glimpse of her face – eyes low-lidded, mouth curled into a seductive smirk – before their lips brush. The kiss is soft, teasing. He tangles his hand into her hair, gives her a thrust of tongue and receives a needy little whimper back.

"Harvey," she murmurs. "Don't stop."

He doesn't. He can't.

 **II**

The New York County Supreme Courthouse is a granite-faced building with a broad set of steps sweeping up from Foley Square to a stately Corinthian colonnade. The complex fills several blocks on the northern side of Centre Street, about a mile East of Tribeca. Mike sits at a bench facing Thomas Paine Park, knees bouncing in anticipation, searching for Harvey amongst the onslaught of lunch hour pedestrians. The air stinks of exhaust and urine, and is humid in a way that makes his shirt stick.

In Mike's conscientious search of the street he catches sight of a man exiting a cab. He is Harvey's height and stature, but his suit is unpressed and shabby, his face unshaved to the point of being considered scruffy. Mike stands to get a better look, eyes narrowed skeptically. If not for the overconfident gait and the way the man transverses the sidewalk – splitting the crowd like Moses crossing the red sea – he wouldn't believe it's his mentor.

"You're late," Mike says. "And hailing cabs behind Ray's back. That's low."

"I didn't want to inconvenience him."

"With a twenty minute drive at noon? C'mon, Harvey, you can do better."

"Fine. You want the truth?"

"I think I got it. Midtown. Yesterday's suit. The distinctly feminine smell of…" He sniffs. "A certain redhead in distress."

Mike senses narrowed eyes behind the dark shield of Harvey's Ray-Bans. "Alright, Sherlock. What did you need to talk about?"

"The motion to dismiss you were meant to file this morning."

Harvey stiffens. "Did you –"

"Ask for an extension? Yeah. But they couldn't grant it. Turns out Donna's case has already been dismissed."

"Please tell me it's not for lack of jurisdiction."

Mike nods solemnly. "It's become a federal question case."

"Fuck," Harvey breathes.

They fall into a fragile silence. Traffic is a loud thrum of engines and horns but Mike swears he can almost hear the managing partner's nervous swallow. Federal means the case goes to the attorney general — chief lawyer and head of the DoJ. Taking on Gibbs and the state of New York is one thing, but Washington? That's an entirely different league. And considering the fact that Harvey's in such a state that he forgot to file a simple motion means they're not exactly playing at their best.

Mike pulls at his collar, feeling a little breathless. "We should try to find out when the grand jury is meeting on her case. The moment she's re-indicted they'll arrest her and if her bail is anything like Jon — hey! Where the hell are you going?"

Mike barrels after Harvey, cutting his way through a crowd of pedestrians toward the street corner. He gets stuck behind a group of kids on a field trip and by the time he's free Harvey is already sliding into a cab. He manages to overhear "Business Center" and "East River" before the passenger door slams shut.

Mike curses, knowing exactly where Harvey is heading and knowing as far as bad ideas go this is the worst of it.

He grabs a Citi bike from the rack in front of the park. With traffic the way it is he can beat the cab if he peddles fast enough. He wobbles to a start, less from being rusty and more from the constrains of his tightly tailored suit. Gathering momentum he cuts through Foley Square, hoping like hell he remembered deodorant this morning.

 **III**

Donna wakes to her head throbbing with such aggression she feels nauseous before she even opens her eyes. It's only when the throbbing becomes increasingly loud that she realizes it's not just in her head; there is something physically pounding at the front door, the insistent _knock knock knock_ driving the bile up her throat with each repetitive echo.

She buries herself further into the bed sheets. Lingering traces of Harvey's bergamot aftershave surround her, chased by hints of something a little mustier…sex and sweat, and yes, that brings back memories of last night, although still muddied by the haze of alcohol. Apparently lust conquered reason in the end. She's only human. But the slow, sober sex of this morning was something she should have resisted. It was wrong, but she wasn't ready to let go of him yet. It's easy to believe things can last forever when you're tangled up together. Now her bed is empty and the undeniable loneliness reminds her of all the things she used to believe she'd have forever that are now gone.

Donna pulls the bed sheets off and exhales, breathing him out. Last night is already less real. He's already gone. It already hurts less. She knows she's deceiving herself – more likely she's just getting used to her stomach feeling hollow – but she desperately needs to believe she still has some control.

It takes an unreasonable amount of self-motivation, but Donna manages the effort to lift herself from bed. Swallowing down a reflexive heave and then another, she slips on her bathrobe and pads ungracefully to the front door. Through the peep hole she sees her mother, perfectly put together in a boat-neck tweed cocktail dress as if she's been commandeered for this mission directly from the Wethersfield Country Club. Donna looks into her heart for welcoming love for her mother and finds instead apprehensiveness. Her first impulse is to run out the back and down the fire escape, but something — probably the hangover — resigns her to opening the door.

"Donna." Her mother's tone is breathless and faintly stricken. It occurs to Donna then, how she must look. Without her armor of makeup and designer clothes, she is left wan and depleted. "Are you all right?"

Raised primarily by au pairs and private school, there is an indwelling part of Donna that has always yearned for her mother's affection. Disillusionment has dampened this craving over the years, but there is still something innate which ebbs at what strength she has left and the childish desire to be comforted by this woman surges through her.

Donna takes a step back and swallows against a tightening throat. "I'm fine."

The clipped reply sets the tone. Her mother's posture becomes more severe. "Surprised I found the place?" A dig, Donna suspects, about not being invited over more often.

"More surprised you're here. Surely Avignon is more your idea of a vacation. Coffee?"

"Please."

They move into the kitchen. Her mother deposits her purse on a counter stool and casts a quick glance around Donna's apartment, elegant in a simple sort of way but nevertheless unacceptable. "To be honest, I was halfway to Tribeca before I remembered you don't live there anymore."

"I'm sure Jonathan would have been thrilled to see you."

Sandra lets out a rich laugh. "Yes, I imagine I would've given him quite the shock. A shame, really, I'd be interested to see that stony face express something other than placidity." She examines the smallest of three antique canisters on the counter top in front of her. Idly she lifts the texture glass lid, finding it empty inside. "I hate this décor, by the way. Too showroom. And if you're going to have something this obtrusive at least make it useful and put something in it."

Donna rubs at her temple, cursing herself for not getting this heart-to-heart over with last night when she wasn't so abrasively sober. Maybe she should ditch the coffee and make mimosas, heavy on the champagne. Her mother wouldn't mind. Like most rich housewives, she's practically an alcoholic. Then afterwards, when their done spitting out lines they've rehearsed a hundred times before, Donna could call Harvey, beg him to come back and have a redo of last night. Drunk on alcohol and lust, she was able to forget the world and all the ways her life is falling apart. That's the funny thing about feeling empty, you'll reach for anything to stuff yourself full.

Perhaps it's best she starts with the canister.

"What do you suggest I fill it with?" Donna asks, turning her back to search the cupboard for coffee beans.

"I don't know. Flour?"

"I don't bake."

"You used to. You were always baking for the hockey team and those CNCF events." She hears the clink of the canister lid being replaced. "And would it kill you to put some pictures up? The bareness of this place is grim."

Donna glances over her shoulder. "Pictures of the family I no longer have? That sounds even grimmer."

Her mother's eyes soften. They are the same shade Alice's were. Clear blue. A glistening summer pool. Again Donna finds herself yearning to bridge the gap, to wilt into her mother's long, downy arms. "Just because she passed away doesn't mean she no longer exists." Her voice is cautious, maybe even tender.

"That's exactly what it means, Mother." Donna sets the espresso machine and retrieves a carton of creamer from the refrigerator. "And you can say her name."

"Can I? I don't know your rules, Donna. I swear every time I bring Alice up you scold me."

Sighing, Donna shuts the fridge door and turns to face her mother. "Can we at least wait until after coffee to have a go at each other? I had a long night."

Her mother raises an eyebrow, politely curious. "Is that because Harvey stayed over?"

Donna stiffens. "Why would Harvey stay over? He's my boss, Mom, what are you trying to –?"

"It's just a question. You don't have to get defensive."

"Just because he picked me up from the bar doesn't mean –"

"I know the two of you are close and sometimes traumatic events can bring out feelings –"

"What are you _talking_ about?"

"— and I would like to think all the time you spend catering to Harvey is because there's something more – "

"This is beyond ridiculous." Donna shakes her head. "I don't even know how to respond to you."

"You don't need to respond. I just want you to know it's _okay_." She stares at Donna for a moment, as if she'd said something monumental. "It's your life, darling. You should do what makes you happy."

"I am not _sleeping_ with Harvey."

"Okay."

"He's a friend."

"Of course."

"I don't know where you get off thinking something so absurd, but it's way out of line."

Her mother waves a hand. "Simply a misunderstanding."

Donna vigorously froths the cream until the espresso finishes sputtering, then passes the steaming mug across the counter. "And for the record, even if something was going on, it's none of your business."

"I'm sorry," she says. "You're my daughter. I had to ask."

"Well you've asked.

Her mother smiles. "Indeed I have."

 **IV**

Mike is drenched in sweat by the time he reaches Duke-Sanger. He sees through the glass windows that Harvey is already badgering the receptionist to let him up. Thank god for door codes.

"Look, Emily — "

" _Erica_. I have a nameplate for fuck sake, it's not hard."

"Right. Erica. I'm sorry about the way I treated you —"

"You're an asshole."

"Yes. I'm an asshole. But that woman you saw in my apartment, she's in a lot of trouble."

" _Donna_ ," the receptionist almost purrs. "God, she is pretty, isn't she? I can see why Jonathan loved her. What a loss."

Harvey must see that she knows more about the situation than he thought because he quickly changes tune. "So you're on Zegareli's side?"

"No. But this is my _job_ , and as much as I feel for the Martells and what they've been through, I can't risk it."

"Please," Harvey whispers. The sheer desperation in his voice makes Mike want to join in and plead with him.

"I'm sorry," the redhead says. Judging by her pained expression, Mike thinks she means it. "Vlad." She turns to a large man standing near the elevators. "Will you please escort Mr. Specter and his sweaty bike messenger out?"

Back out in the blazing heat, Mike says to Harvey, "Listen, it's for the best. Continuing to provoke Jonathan is a bad idea."

"I didn't come here for Jonathan."

"Just dropped by to piss poor Emma off, then?"

"Emily, wasn't it?"

"Was it?"

"Quiet, counsel men," says Vlad. His accent is thick, likely Russian. "Come with me." He turns down a paved side street. Mike and Harvey exchange looks. Following an eight foot tall Slavic dude feels like a bad idea all around, but Mike is pretty sure his "come with me" is linked to an unsaid "if you want to live" and not in a Kyle Reese saving Sarah Connor from the terminator kind of way.

So, of course, they follow him.

"Where do you think he's taking us?" Mike whispers. "Meat freezer or basement torture chamber?"

"I _think_ you need to shut up."

"Sorry. Certain death makes me nervous."

"Mike, another word and I'm going to have you buried in Logan Sanders backyard as my dying wish."

"I wouldn't mind that actually. It would make him a suspect —"

" _Shut. Up_."

"Right."

Vlad leads them to a utility door near the back of the platinum building. "Zerre is staff elevator to right," he says, swiping his badge. The door pops open. "Neither down nor feathers, friends."

Harvey hovers at the threshold. "Why are you helping us?"

"For Dee."

"For tea?"

"For Dee."

"Forty — right." Harvey slaps Mike on the shoulder. "Pay the man," he says, then disappears through the open door.

Mike pulls a couple hundreds out of his wallet. "Neither down nor feathers," he repeats in lieu of thank you.

Vlad grins and shoves Mike's offering away with enough force to crack a sternum. "Go to hell."

"Uh…thanks?"

The security guard turns and walks back up the side street. Mike watches him, feeling a little thrown. Menacing with a touch of genial, a rarity.

When Mike gets to the staff elevator he is surprised to find Harvey holding the door open for him. "Make a new friend?" he asks.

"He didn't break my neck so…" Mike shrugs. "Maybe I'll add him on Facebook. What do you think his last name is? Not-a-hitman?"

The corner of Harvey's mouth quirks up; it's the first notion of a smile Mike's seen on his face in days.

The elevator doors shut. The mirror shows both of them – Harvey bearded, Mike damp with sweat, expensive European suits badly wrinkled. A real dream team. The Harvey Specter Mike met at the hotel years ago would be horrified; the one standing next to him lets out a light laugh.

"God, I need a shave."

"I don't know," Mike says. "It's kinda badass."

"You think?"

"Yeah. Real brawny. If not for the beard, Vlad would have killed us. And who even said clothes make the man? Armani?"

"Shakespeare."

Mike feigns shock. "Donna starts her teachings early."

Harvey smiles softly. Doesn't even try to fight it. The world is upside down.

The elevator dings and the doors whisk open. The large hallway is empty, as is the floor's reception desk. Harvey takes a right and Mike follows quickly at his heels. When they pass Jonathan's office it becomes clear where they're headed.

"Contacting a non-party witness is likely to get you accused of tampering," Mike says carefully.

"True. But as of this morning, there is no case against Donna and since she's yet to be re-indicted…"

"A loophole," Mike mutters. "Genius."

"Clothes don't make the man. The man makes the man." Harvey pauses at the CEO's office door and turns to Mike. "Don't tell Donna I said that."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

 **V**

Donna retrieves a plate from the cupboard and tosses some questionably-fresh biscotti on it. Then she pulls out coasters and a couple napkins and joins her mother in the living room.

 _See?_ _I may be a soon-to-be convict, but I can still be civilized._

Sandra is seated on the couch, ankles crossed and back straight, as regal as a queen. Donna drops the biscotti on the coffee table and sits with her legs folded under her, suppressing a smirk at her mother's grimace.

"I saw that exposé the networks are running on you and Jonathan," Sandra says, eyeing Donna over the edge of her mug. "I hope it's exaggerated."

Donna shrugs. "Some of it, I guess. Is that why you're here? You're trying to stage some kind of intervention?"

Her mother quietly studies her, those blue eyes looking somehow both sharp and gentle at the same time. Donna has her full attention and it feels like the sun breaking through on a dark day. Too often she had been a child of nine or thirteen or fifteen seeking her mother from center stage and finding an empty seat. Forty years old and she has never learned how to love without longing. The realization depresses her.

"I'm worried about my daughter, so I came to see her. There's no other agenda."

Donna sips her coffee and nods, although she isn't convinced. "So it takes your daughter committing treason to get you to rise to the occasion?"

"I wish you could be a little less dramatic."

"Really, Mother? When Alice was sick and I needed you, where were you then?"

Sandra detaches herself from Donna's glare. "Nowhere," she admits, shocking Donna. It's the last thing she expected her to say. "I was nowhere."

A silence settles across the living room, and while it stretches on Donna finds herself growing strangely disappointed. She would have rather her mother made an excuse, because the truth feels so much harsher.

"Why?"

"It was hard for me."

"Hard for you," Donna repeats. She wants to scream, but the voice that comes out is calm and measured. "I lost my _daughter_."

"I know," her mother says gently, searching Donna's eyes. She reaches, as if to take her hand, then must think better of it. "Did I have to lose mine too? Your grief has become all-encompassing, leaving no room for your family, your marriage – "

"This _grief_ is what I have instead of Alice. How do you expect me to let go of it?"

"I don't expect you to let go of it. I expect you to _share_ it, to open up and let people in."

"My relationships are exactly how I want them to be," Donna says, struggling to sound firm. "I'm content with my life. Why can't you just accept that?"

"What life?Harvey's life? You're a support role, Donna. He is there and you are here. Are you telling me this is how you want it?"

Donna shakes her head, feeling like a crack is starting to form in the wall that separates her from her most honest self. "Am I allowed to have it any other way?"

"Of course you are. It's your _life_ , darling, and right now, if we were to be perfectly honest about it, we'd find your love for Harvey is the biggest thing you have. It's the first step you've taken since Alice passed away, but you have to realize, you're more than a secretary."

"And what if I don't want to be more than a secretary?"

Her mother meets her gaze. "You wouldn't have stepped off that ledge if this was all you saw for yourself."

Donna sucks in a breath. It's been over a decade since that desperate phone call and it hasn't once been brought up between them. She never told her mother – never told anyone – about her plague of dark thoughts and how they drove her to standing at the edge of that roof. She doesn't know how to respond.

"It's time you put yourself first for once." Her mother reaches out and rests her fingers on Donna's cheek, her touch lighter than the stroke of a feather. "Your path matters too."

 **VI**

Melanie Zegareli smiles when the attorneys enter her office. No surprise, no confusion, so either someone tipped her off that they were coming in advance or she's really good at keeping a straight face. Either way, it pisses Harvey off.

"Mr. Specter," she says. "How gracious of you to pop in. Although, I must say I'm a little surprised. I don't believe you have an appointment."

"How about we skip the bullshit power play," Harvey says. "You know why I'm here."

"Of course." She narrows her eyes a little. "The testimony I've volunteered to give in Donna's case. Unfortunately, my attorneys have advised me not to share the fateful details. But I suppose I could give you the punch line." The corners of her mouth curl up. "Donna did it."

"That's a pretty cheap shot," Mike spouts off at Harvey's back, "throwing the blame on a woman in her twenties with no prior corporate experience and a terminally ill child – anyone can make the case you took advantage of her."

Zegareli cocks her head, as if it just occurred to her that Mike is a person. "Frankly, it sounds like you think rather low of Donna. An easy mistake to make, I'm sure, being that she's just a secretary to you, but to me she is one of the most competent COO Duke-Sanger has ever seen and there are multiple accounts to back that."

"I'm sure she was great at the interpersonal," Harvey admits, "but she would have been oblivious to the financials."

"I would argue the opposite. She _did_ sway the board to invest in a seemingly arbitrary Indian software company that specialized in high-resolution GPS. Ingenious, it turns out, because as you know, that little company took on some big clients, mainly rich Middle Eastern manufactures. I believe most specialized in GPS guided missiles. Treasonous to our country by the third degree, but _very_ lucrative."

The words _missiles_ and _lucrative_ bounce around in Harvey's head. He's always known about the darker side of corporate New York, where the occasional insider trading and anti-trust is seen as child's play, but it's an underworld he never thought he'd find himself barging in on. Still, as unsettled as he is he holds his composure, even shrugs. "Sounds like hearsay and not a lot of facts."

Zegareli's smile freezes. "Do you think I'm stupid enough to throw evidence at you?"

"Well, you are stupid enough to commit treason."

"God, you really think she's innocent."

Innocent? Donna has admitted she isn't, but Harvey – still having not looked at her case and perhaps clutching an ideal – sees her crimes only as sacrifices for her family and will defend that fiercely against anyone who tries to take it from him. "Donna wouldn't have done any of this knowingly."

"Oh Harvey," the CEO says, "you didn't even know she had a daughter. I think it's safe to assume you don't know _what_ she's capable of."

"Doesn't matter. I trust her."

"Funny, I heard someone say that same thing with just as much confidence. Want to have a guess at what happened to him in the end?" She leans back in her seat and waits. Harvey's jaw tightens. He knows the answer, but won't give her the satisfaction. Her smile turns insufferably condescending in the growing silence. "She left him. Without fight, without reason, without so much as a backward glance, so if you think she won't do the same to you when you're all used up, you're mistaken."

He saw it coming and still the words are a blow. Harvey takes a step backwards, shocked by the sudden crippling tightness he feels coiling inside his chest. He stares at the CEO intently and says nothing. His tongue is trapped. Even now, Donna feels far away. Probably forgetting last night with all the ease she did thirteen years ago. She doesn't want to mislead him is what she said, but what she meant was these feelings only flow one way.

"You can carry on about Donna's character flaws until you're blue in the face," Mike says. "You won't gain any ground."

Zegareli rolls her eyes. "It's shocking how delusional you are."

"Call it whatever you want," Harvey tells her. "But at the end of this, you'll be the one behind bars."

Zegareli fixes Harvey with a challenging glance. "You think I haven't dealt with your kind before?"

"I highly doubt it."

"Yes, because you're special, right?" she says. "The rules just don't apply to you, do they? I mean, god, you took down Brandon Russo as an ADA. A case that would have made Cameron Dennis' career and he just _let_ you have it. How fortunate. And it was so easy for you, wasn't it? Dominos. Russo basically put himself away."

There it is again. Russo. Donna was trying to tell him she'd done worse than use him to get into the DA. He wouldn't listen. Instead he pushed the thought out; he keeps pushing it out and will continue to push it out because whatever it is, he's not in a position to face it. What's done is done.

"I already know about Russo," he lies.

"Then you must know that the only reason your name is on any wall is because your _secretary_ , who you trust wholeheartedly _put_ you there. In my opinion, if anyone's been taken advantage of in this whole wretched affair, it's you, Harvey."

Harvey stands there, feeling…what? Confused? Angry? Defeated? He doesn't know. He has always seen himself as an unstoppable force, and now here this woman is, stripping him of his sense of self, and because he is too weak to face the truth he's left defenseless.

The CEO grins. "Am I gaining ground yet, or shall I keep going?"

Mike casts a quick glance at Harvey, a smothery, frantic look in his eyes. "I think we've heard enough," he says. "C'mon, Harvey, let's go."

Zegareli gives a small shake of her head. Harvey, understanding, tells Mike, "I'll catch up."

Mike exits with a sigh. Harvey barely notices, his gaze locked on the CEO. When they're alone, Zegareli says, in a more amicable tone, "Are you still willing to do what it takes to save Donna?"

"What do you think?"

"I _think_ you aren't exactly in a position of power, Mr. Specter. It would be best to answer my questions without the resistance."

"Yes," he says softly. "I am."

"Then convince her to testify against Jonathan."

Harvey frowns, confused by the sudden shift in tactic. "You want her to turn on her ex-husband?"

"You think I'm the bad guy in this, but it's like you said, who would be stupid enough to commit treason? Only it's not a question of stupidity. It's a question of who has a grudge."

Realizing her angle, Harvey says slowly, "A dishonorably discharged soldier."

Zegareli nods. "Two singing the same tune is always better than one. Convince her to testify and as an added bonus, I'll let you have Duke-Sanger."

"As a client?" Harvey gives a humorless laugh. "No thanks."

"I'm not quite sure you're getting what I'm offering here," the CEO says. "This is a perfect opportunity for you to show the world you deserve to be managing partner. You've been losing clients left and right since you hired that fraud Mike Ross. Now that you're harboring a traitor of the United States you'll lose everything unlessyou do something bold. Representing Duke-Sanger shows Manhattan you're not afraid to take on congress and you're even less afraid of losing."

Harvey swallows, feeling simultaneously like this offer is too good to be true and the worst option he's ever been faced with. "And how do you expect this is all going to end?"

"Like a dream, Harvey. Donna will be free, Jonathan will be in prison, Pearson Specter Litt will still be standing and whenever a Republican wants to make a deal with a corporation, guess whose phone will ring?"

 _Mine_ , Harvey thinks. He can save Donna, save the firm, take down Jonathan. How can he lose?

"Your name's on the wall," the CEO whispers. "It's time you _earned_ it."

 **VII**

 **Today** 4:12 PM

 **Donna:** I'm not coming into work today.

 **Harvey:** I figured that much when I left at lunch and you were still snoring.

 **Donna:** What can I say? I need my beauty sleep.

 **Harvey:** You can just say you miss me.

 **Donna:** I'll tell you what I miss.

 **Harvey:** …

 **Donna:** Your unworthiest hand touching my holy shrine.

 **Harvey:** I should have known Shakespeare would go straight to your (cat emoji).

 **Donna:** When are you going to be home?

 **Harvey:** Give me a time.

 **Donna:** Now.

 **Harvey:** A reasonable time.

 **Donna:** Okay… Now?

 **Harvey:** I'll be home at 7. Will you be there?

 **Donna:** Yes.

 **Harvey:** Good. I'll take a 7 course meal and a backrub.

 **Donna:** You give my (cat emoji) a performance like you did last night and I'll give you 12 courses and a full body massage.

 **Harvey:** I'm never going to be able to get my shoes off before you fuck me, am I?

 **Donna:** We'll work on it.

 **Harvey:** I can't wait to see you, Donna.

 **Donna:** I know :-*

Smiling, Donna sets her cell phone on the bureau. A small breeze shifts the air through her bedroom's open window, cooling the sweat collecting on her chest from the humidity. She places her palm on top of the pink notebook she has balanced in her lap. Somehow this notebook had saved her life. It had drawn her to Harvey and given her a purpose at a time where she desperately needed one.

Again and again Donna has told herself _I can't_ – that life isn't like a light bulb, if it burns out, you shouldn't get to screw another in. But what if she could? What would it feel like to be able to call something 'home' and not have it sound like a distant, foreign place? To be able to lie in the arms of the man she loves without feeling he's still just out of her reach? Can she forge a new path for herself when she's become so catastrophically lost?

She doesn't know. But her mother's right, it's time to move on. It's time to stop hiding from the injuries of her past, harboring insecurities when there should be strength and clinging to doubt when there should be confidence.

It's time she told Harvey the truth. About Alice, about the notebook, about herself and how she loves him.

She feels anew. The euphoria of potential spreads around her in waves and for the first time in a long time her smile feels genuine.

 **A/N: Thank you all for your continued support. I'm still here because of it, although I know my updates are slow. If you have the time, reviews are always greatly appreciated.**

 **Thank you to my beta, Kate McK for everything. I cherish every red question mark and every piece of advice. Vlad only lives because of you.**


	20. Have Violent Ends (Part 2)

I

"Let's see if I have this straight." Louis leans forward in his chair, gesturing with his hand in that menacing, yet faintly effeminate way he has: wrist flicked back, thumb pressed to forefinger. "You want us to represent Duke-Sanger, whose current financial condition is sustained by institutionalized and systematic accounting fraud and corruption."

"You're forgetting treason," Mike says, kicking his feet up on the coffee table.

Louis points at Mike and nods, but keeps his eyes locked on Harvey. "I'm all for toeing the line. It gives me a sense of inner balance which translates well into my ballet. But betraying the motherland? That pushes morally equivocal."

"Zegareli's offering us ten million, win or lose."

Louis quirks a bushy brow. "On second thought, everyone deserves representation and who am I to say which fifty shades are gray?"

"Are you kidding?" Mike looks from one attorney to the other, furious. "They could offer us fifty million and it would still be a terrible idea. The two of you will be the next Shapiro and Cochran."

Harvey sighs and gazes out the window, probably looking for patience. Mike has been nipping at his heels about the deal since they left the platinum offices. He doesn't understand how this man, who is meant to be his superior, can have such a naïve perspective – you don't make deals with traitors, it's common sense.

"I understand where you're coming from, Mike," Louis says, "but I feel like I would be more of a Kardashian in this scenario."

Mike glares at the named partner. "With what hair?"

"It's not about hair. It's about prestige – nay perseverance."

" _Nay_?"

"Nay. It means 'or rather'."

"I know what it means," Mike says. "I just haven't heard someone nay since electricity."

"Unbelievable." Louis shifts his attention to Harvey. "Will you please tell this uncultured youth that naying is a thing?"

"It's a thing horses do," Harvey says, dropping Zegareli's contract on Louis's desk. Then he turns and stalks out.

Mike jumps up and follows, leaving Louis to prattle on, "Not neigh – _nay_! It's a homophone!"

"So we're just going to sell our services to these corporate scumbags?" Mike says as soon as Harvey's door is closed behind them. "Have you completely lost your sense of integrity?"

"We don't have a choice. We lost Integral Health this morning and Ten East is trying to negotiate out of their contract. We're sinking."

Feeling like Harvey's losing his grip on the situation, Mike chooses his next words carefully. "What are your choices when someone puts a gun to your head?"

Harvey gives him a look.

"You do what they say or they shoot you, right?"

"Mike – "

" _Wrong_. You take the gun. You pull out a bigger gun. You call their bluff. Or, you do one of another one hundred and forty-six other things, because you _always_ have a choice. You taught me that."

Harvey closes his eyes with a pained expression. When he opens them again, he says, "This gun isn't pointed at me. It's pointed at the people I care about and I'm not willing to risk them to recklessness and egotism."

"I'll tell you what's reckless, the fact that you haven't even _looked_ at Donna's case. It's like you don't give a shit about what happened."

"What difference will it make?" Harvey snaps, both firm and evasive; he's avoiding the subject with the appearance of meeting it. "Guilty – not guilty, the outcome is the same. I'm getting her out of this, whatever it costs."

"What if it doesn't have to cost as much as you think? The evidence against Donna is overwhelming, Harvey. Her motive is transparent. A trained monkey could convict her. Why the hell would Zegareli need Donna unless there's something big we're missing?"

There's a soft thud as Harvey collapses down at his desk. He picks up a pen and rolls it between his palms, considering. "Maybe siding with Donna helps Zegareli avoid jail time."

"I don't buy that." Mike runs his hand over his face and starts pacing. "Driving a wedge between Donna and Jonathan matters for some reason." He stops and turns to Harvey. "What was that thing Zegareli was saying about Russo?"

From the look on Harvey's face he's hit something, he doesn't know what and he's almost certain Harvey doesn't exactly know either.

"Nothing important."

Mike lifts a curious brow. "It didn't sound like nothing important."

Harvey sighs, then offers, "Russo was my first trial case when I was at the DA."

"What does that have to do with Donna?"

"I don't know. I'm scared to ask."

"Scared to ask," Mike repeats. "If I said to you I was scared of anything to do with a case, the roof would come off this building."

"Maybe scared isn't the right word."

Mike nods gravely, confusion showing in his eyes. "Then why is scared the word you used?"

II

It's hot, uncomfortably so. Donna stands before the stove stirring the base of a Bolognese sauce she found the recipe for online. She glares down at her phone, muttering to herself, "slowly simmer to bring the impurities to the surface for skimming." Had she known she'd need a Michelin star to prepare spaghetti she would have ordered take-out.

Her palms sweat, not from the heat or the overly complicated recipe, but with nerves. She is in Harvey's home, cooking him dinner. The domesticity and what it entails terrifies her. She is leaning into what aches, reaching toward something she thought was a resolution but now feels a whole hell of a lot like sticking her hand into a garbage disposal, trying to retrieve something lost and trusting Harvey not to flick the switch.

She turns and peers at Alice's pink notebook tucked beneath her purse on the kitchen counter. She has spent years running away from this, but in the end it's like trying to lose a shadow. Telling Harvey the truth means giving it a name and confronting it for what it is: the pain, the denial, the survivor's guilt. He deserves honesty and maybe by being honest she can finally feel at peace with who she is.

The sound of the front door opening pulls Donna out of her musing. She drops the ladle and smiles like an idiot.

He's home. And seeing him walk into the kitchen, already tugging his tie off, she thinks maybe she is finally home too.

III

The evening sun casts the apartment in a romantic half-light as it sets behind the Manhattan skyline. Donna stands in the kitchen, her dark eyes sparkling and her mouth curled into a beautiful smile. Harvey watches her, mesmerized. It still feels like a dream. His own sheepish grin spreads across his face as she saunters over, followed by an intense desire to touch her, to feel her skin slide under his fingertips, if only to ensure she's real.

His lips find her first. The kiss is soft and innocent, and neither breaks their smile. It's a simple exchange, but to Harvey it feels like a small luxury, like that first sip of scotch after a long day or taking his socks off before bed.

"How'd your day go?" she asks as she pulls away. She seems different than she did this morning, more assured and relaxed.

Harvey thinks about her case being dismissed for federal question, then about his meeting with Zegareli and the deal they struck. His mood shifts. He feels a heaviness in his chest and a sense of something dark lurking behind him. It claws into his consciousness, calling to him, _"Harvey, listen to me. There's more. Russo…"_

He steps out of Donna's embrace and over to the bar cart. "We lost Integral Health," he says, grabbing the decanter of scotch. "You want some?"

Donna picks up her ladle carefully. "Harvey, Integral Health is a major client."

"I know."

"You couldn't find a way to keep them?"

"No."

"Why not?"

He pours two generous glasses and rejoins her in the kitchen. "Let's not talk about work," he says, setting the tumblers aside. His hands seek out her body, following the curve of her waist, exploring her with a possessiveness that seems almost violent. She smiles. Seeing this as an invitation, he grips her hips and lifts her onto the countertop.

"Well," she says softly, "someone's eager."

Harvey darts a look down at the exposed portion of her chest, smooth and white, framed by the contract of her black dress. He licks his lips. "Aren't you?"

She shrugs. "Haven't really given it much thought."

His eyes flick back to hers and she gives him a lazy, predatory little smirk. "You expect me to buy that, given all the lying you've been doing lately?"

"Do you need evidence?" She leans forward, curling her fingers through his hair and delicately tugs him toward her so that her lips are at his ear. He holds his breath. "I can show you where to find it," she says, dragging the words out slowly, sending a shiver down his spine and a tidal wave of blood rushing to his groin.

Harvey pulls back and stares at her. Silently and without breaking eye contact she spreads her legs for him, her dress riding up her thighs until he can see the black lace of her underwear. He grabs her by the back of the thighs, hoisting her toward him, and bends down to press his face, his mouth, to her crotch through her panties.

She moans encouragingly and falls back onto her elbows. He prods with his tongue and grazes at the fabric with his teeth, but nothing too much and nowhere near the intensity she wants.

Her fingers dig into his jacket cuffs; her hips arch against his mouth –

And then his goddamn phone starts ringing.

Before he has a chance to silence it Donna sits up, flushed and breathless, and plucks it from his coat pocket. He feels sorry for whoever is on the other line because the look on her face is murderous.

"Harvey's busy," she says upon answering.

In an attempt to hide his grin Harvey presses his lips to her neck. Then he hears her say, "What contract?" and freezes. He breaks off and pulls back. Her dark eyes narrow at him. She lets out a disapproving hum, and tells the mysterious caller, "Thanks, I'll let him know."

Silence fills the apartment, expanding like a stifling mid-summer air. The sauce left on the stove pops as it rolls to a boil.

"That was Melanie Zegareli's secretary," Donna says, so firmly Harvey feels she has set the words loose to crawl under his skin. "She wants you to know she received your signed contract and looks forward to doing business with you."

Harvey swallows. "Donna, I – " He stops himself.

She stares at him as if to pry the truth from his pupils. "Go on."

"It's in your best interest."

She blinks, once, and cocks her head. "How exactly is getting in bed with my enemy in my best interest?"

"Having her on our side keeps her from testifying against you." Harvey feels like his explanation is more for himself than for her, and, of course, she knows this. She knows everything.

Donna slides off the counter and moves to turn the stove down. "You really think having Duke-Sanger as a client is going to keep Melanie quiet?"

"No," he admits. "But you testifying against Jonathan will."

Donna turns around slowly, says slowly. "I'm not doing that."

"It's looking like the only way out of this, Donna."

"Then, I guess I go to prison."

Harvey's anger returns, as if her turning down the burner flame has instead turned something up in him. "Don't be stupid," he tells her. "I know it's not ideal, but sometimes sacrifices have to be made."

"Do you even know what the definition of a sacrifice is? It's giving up something important for the sake of another's consideration. And it sure as hell isn't something that _you_ get to decide for me."

"Donna –"

"Jonathan's a good man."

"If he's so good then why did you leave him?"

The annoyance falls from Donna's face. She takes a step back and stares at Harvey a long moment, incredulous. "I'm not turning on him," she repeats. But all Harvey hears through his frustration and guilt is that her ex-husband means more to her than securing her own future.

Another wave of fury courses through him. "When did you become so goddamn high and mighty? That's what I'd love to know. You weren't too selfless when you used me to get into the DA when it suited you."

"Harvey –"

"And now there's all this shit with Russo."

She shakes her head as if to warn him: y _ou don't want to go here._

"The case was rigged, wasn't it?" He is asking for more honesty than he means to, but with the question now hanging out in the open he feels a sudden relief.

Donna stares at him, lips pressed together in a hard line.

He gets louder – insisting, accusing: _"_ Wasn't it?"

She nods.

"Did you rig it?"

"Yes." Her eyes search his face, trying to gauge his reaction. When she speaks again her voice is calm and low. "I blackmailed Cameron to take the case. Then I did whatever it took to make sure you won it."

The confession rips the breath from Harvey's lungs. A mixture of rage and loss coil inside of him. He recognizes the feeling, and for a moment he is sixteen again, coming home to find his mother in bed with a man who wasn't his father.

To have his first big case stripped from him is unbearable. But to know it happened because of Donna – the one person he's always given his trust to – is impossible to grasp. How could she be capable of such betrayal? And if he hadn't noticed the deception before, what else could he have missed?

The thoughts he'd pushed out since finding out about the Duke-Sanger scandal come back darker and more insinuating. Perhaps meddling with Russo was just the start and there were other cases. Perhaps all the intuition she's shown over the years wasn't intuition at all — she knew Cameron and Russo and god knows who else. Has anything about her been real? He doesn't know anymore. He's lost his ability to judge, if he ever possessed it.

Donna reaches out to him. Her cool fingers slide along his jaw and again he is reminded of his mother, her ghost palm pressed to his fevered forehead. This love is an ocean, he thinks. It wears him down, pulls him in, and now he is left with the uneasy sense that he cannot breathe.

"Harvey," she says gently. "Listen, let's sit down and have dinner. I'll tell you everything, okay? We can talk through this."

"How?" he asks, genuinely searching for the answer. "How do we get passed this, Donna? Because right now I feel like if I had any self-respect left I would hate you with it."

"Please. I made a mistake."

She is looking at him like he's meant to save her – desperate, drowning. He's never felt so conflicted. He struggles to make sense of his emotions, torn between the love he has for her and the realization that he has no idea who she is. The two sensations grate at each other, impossible to resolve. They are drowning each other.

"The Donna I know wouldn't have done this – any of it," he says softly, more to himself than to her.

Donna inhales sharply, almost like she's in pain. Almost like it's a struggle for her to breathe, to be near him. She doesn't speak.

The silence stretches. An eternity comes and goes. They don't touch, they don't move, their chests rise and fall at opposite intervals.

Harvey tears his gaze away from her. He focuses on the too bright skyline, letting the sun burn into his vision, hoping that when he finally gets the courage to turn back he'd be too blinded to see the look of dismay on her face. He thought he'd be able to handle things better than this. But part of him knows he couldn't stomach the truth; it's why he avoided her case and refused to press her for information. He was clutching at the Donna he knew and understood in order to preserve the image of her in his head.

"Maybe if I explained," she starts and pauses. He thinks she's trying not to cry.

"Maybe," Harvey whispers. "But what if – "

What if he can't get passed the anger? It's been years since his mother's betrayal and he still can't find it in himself to forgive her. He's a closer – he doesn't know how to seek a suitable resolution, he only knows how to make the problems go away.

"—you can't forgive me," she finishes.

Harvey nods and glances down at her, blinking away the sunspots. Donna meets his gaze; her eyes are red-rimmed and tears streak down her porcelain cheeks.

Harvey moves unconsciously toward her, wanting to comfort her so much he forgets his own heart break, but she steps just beyond his reach. An uncrossable distance has again slipped between them; another bridge burned, one he doesn't think can be mended.

"It's okay," she tells him. "I told you to let it sink in." She stops, and with a quick movement, wipes the edge of one eye, then the other. "I think now it finally has."

IV

Donna leaves before dusk.

Harvey sits on the couch, flipping through channels. In the passing slur he hears the Yankees have squeezed out a victory against Chicago, 2-1. He takes a sip of scotch and lets his head loll back against the cushions. The dinner she made remains untouched on the stove, filling his apartment with the savory smell of a home cooked meal. A knot rises in his chest as he contemplates the abandonment; it chokes him up like a rope that won't stop twisting.

A breeze comes through the open window. The air feels nice, cooler than the last few weeks. Soon the trees will have dulled down from the bright green of June to an autumn mix of reds and golds. As a kid, Harvey always looked forward to when the leaves changed. He imagines the crimson hue of the Japanese maples scattered throughout Beacon Hill. Where would he be now, if he was back in Boston? On the pitcher's mound, he assumes. Up by a single run and trying to hold out in the bottom of the inning, his shoulder burning.

He was a closer then too, called in to get the final outs when the team was leading. Then his shoulder got worse and he became more of a liability. Is that what he is now? Managing partner of a crumbling firm, another mound of dust. His suit and tie now seem like that baseball uniform, a costume of doomed hopes.

Scotch glass gone dry, Harvey rises and moves across the room to refill it. In his peripheral he catches sight of the dying cactus and feels his heart break all over again, overwhelmed by the fact that something can flourish for no purpose but to later wilt. He strides into the kitchen and plucks it off the counter; it's light in his hands, dried up to a husk. He opens the cabinet below the sink and tosses it into the trash. The simple act takes it out of him; he shuts his eyes and grips the counter, trying to ease his nerves. When he opens them again, a pink notebook stares back at him. He blinks.

 _What the hell?_

He recognizes it by the Ranger's sticker on the center, curling at the edges as the glue on the back degrades with age. A blue and white number two is hand drawn in the corner, Jeter's number. Harvey brushes over the notebook with his fingertips.

"Alice," he whispers, and for a split second he sees her, grinning at him with those two front teeth still growing in.

Carefully he lifts the cover. Tucked into the first page is a letter, his name written on the envelope in Donna's elegant, steady hand.

He starts to open it, then thinks if she wanted him to read it she would have given it to him. He leaves it, closes the notebook – he's not ready for those memories – and goes back to his scotch. Still, he can't shake the itch of what the letter might contain. Maybe she left the notebook on purpose, a second line of defense to the explanation he wouldn't hear. God, he's such a bastard. He should have let her say her piece. But he can't see what difference it would make – she used him and then let him live in the delusion they were something special. He thought of her as his guiding light, which is funny, because he got the metaphor right; lighthouses aren't places of safety, they warn of danger, they tell you to keep away. _Christ_ – what does he owe her, really?

He strides back into the kitchen and tears open the letter.

 _Dear Harvey,_

 _I hope you're settling into the new firm well, and that being a big shot corporate lawyer hasn't gone to your head too much. I worry if your ego gets any bigger there won't be a suit fancy enough to contain you. And I know what you're thinking – just because I enjoyed you in all your glory doesn't mean Judge Snyder will be swayed by your birthday suit. You gotta stay humble, my friend – or at least pretend to be._

 _Jokes aside, Gordon Schmidt Van Dyke is lucky to have you. It's been only a few days, but the office already feels emptier without your smile and laughter gracing it. There's nothing I wouldn't give for another one of your horrendous drawing of us together, or to reach out and fix your tie, which I'm certain at this very moment is tugged too far to the right._

 _I wasn't planning on contacting you so soon, especially after our night together, but I feel the need to put things right. I know honesty is best done face-to-face, but I have a habit of holding everything in and never saying what I mean. You always imagine you'll get the chance to say what needs to be said, so you put it off, you tell yourself it's not the right time, you keep piling on the excuses. Now it's been so long, what I've done feels unforgivable._

 _But I'm not asking for forgiveness in this letter, only for you to know that I'm sorrier than I can ever express for what I'm about to tell you._

 _The truth is I'm not a secretary. The night we met I sought you out — not because I wanted to switch to your desk, but because someone very special to me wanted us to meet each other._

 _Her name was Alice Martell. You watched her every Wednesday over the course of the summer a little over two years ago. You taught her about jazz music. She loved to listen to Miles Davis just before bed; her favorite song was_ Seven Steps to Heaven _. You took her to Columbus Park, where she hit her first home run. After that, all she would talk about was how she wanted to play for the big leagues. She wanted to slide home like Derek Jeter and had grass stains on every pair jeans she owned. She always stood too close to people and never learned how to use her inside voice. She was kind and smart and full of life. She was so many things, Harvey, I'm scared I can't explain her – how do you summarize someone in a few key points? But I guess all you need to know is she was my daughter and she loved you very much._

 _Alice passed away at the end of that summer. Even writing this lays a heavy, hopeless feeling in my heart. People say it gets easier with time, and in some ways it does. The weight is still there, still heavy as before, but you find the strength to bear it better. But in some ways it gets harder. You think her dying is the worst part. Then she stays dead and it sinks in. Instead of a daughter to love, I have a bedspread, a hockey jersey, a sun dress I could never get the stain out of._

 _In those first few months following Alice's passing I was convinced I couldn't live without her. And if I'm honest, I didn't want to. The only thing I wanted I could never have and each day my hope dwindled. Each day grew darker and bleaker. My continued existence tore at me. It's like watching the water rise around you in a sinking ship. You can't breathe, you can't function, and everyone is telling you to hang on, that you'll get through it — one step, one day. But each day takes you further away from her. Each step feels like a betrayal._

 _And I guess that's how I found myself standing on the edge of my balcony. The water wouldn't stop rising. I felt my_ _only step forward was stepping to an end._

 _Then for some inexplicable reason, while balancing on that ledge, I thought about you, Harvey. I thought about the goal list Alice kept in her notebook and how she wanted, so desperately, for us to meet. It wasn't a conscious decision, stepping down, choosing to stay alive; it was almost like I was in a trance. I know how it sounds. I know it's crazy. But this one insane moment – meeting you and all that came after – changed my whole life._

 _I've never believed in fate or the supernatural, but someone once told me that universe can take with one hand and give with the other, and I think, in getting you, the universe gave more than I could ever wish for, and much more than I deserve. Nothing I can say will ever sum how grateful I am to have met you. When it comes to you there is never enough – words, time, love. You slowed the world down to a pace where I could breathe and function, then slower still so I could see the beauty in being alive again._

 _Deceiving you is perhaps the worst thing I've ever done. I know you're probably angry and hurt and none of this makes sense. I won't blame you if you hate me; my only hope is that you can cope with the harm I've caused._

 _And with my whole heart I thank you, not only for caring for my daughter at such a delicate time in her life, but for every day we spent together. Being your secretary has saved my life._

 _Wishing you all the best in everything life has to offer._

 _Your loving friend,_

 _Donna_

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you for reading! And apologies for the wait, dear readers. I know I gave you hope in the last chapter and now I've taken it away - with all that's going on, this relationship can't come easy. Still, I hope you enjoyed it. The next chapter (wherein Donna realizes Harvey isn't the cure-all and reunites with a certain furry friend) looks like it's going to be a long one, so it might be a while for an update.**

 **Finally: All my thanks to Kate McK, who drags this story out of me and makes it readable.**


	21. Clarity

I

The sun dips beyond the Midtown cityscape, letting a coolness that hasn't been felt since the beginnings of summer seep through the streets.

Anita Gibbs sits at her desk, going through a box of evidence from the Paulsen case. In the morning she has a meeting with her boss, New York's Attorney General, Evan O'Laughlin, to inspect the evidence before passing it off to the Department of Justice.

Anita initially indicted Donna without much evidence, hoping she'd turn on Martell in exchange for a pardon. Donna hadn't done that, and now federal is taking over, re-indicting her on much more serious charges. Unfortunately for Paulsen, the evidence stacked against her is quite substantial: numerous signed correspondences and meeting minutes – she might as well have stamped her name across Afghan insurgency missiles. As clever as Harvey Specter is, there is a good possibility he's going to lose this one. And that should give Anita a sense of satisfaction – she's been dreaming of knocking Harvey off his pedestal for months – but for some reason she can't seem to shake the persistent nagging feeling in her gut that she's missing something crucial.

Maybe it would be easier to be smug if the circumstances were different. It's hard to see the victory in taking down a woman who committed treason as a means to provide for her daughter, especially when said daughter passed away after all the sacrifices.

Anita peeks over at the portraits of her grandchildren and wonders what she would do in Donna's predicament. The answer comes easy: whatever it takes. The maternal instinct. Perhaps Harvey can argue criminal negligence _,_ that Donna neither foresaw nor desired the outcome of her actions, but it's a stretch and federal would certainly counter with willful blindness — either way, culpability is never a consideration in treason cases.

Anita settles back in her seat with a sigh, feeling tired. She continues to idly sift through her notes that — she fears — the DoJ will find mostly irrelevant. She comes across an email exchange she must have overlooked. It has nothing to do with Donna, but the subject line "criminal background check on new hire" grabs her attention. It's from human resources to Zegareli, containing a forwarded quote from the military trial counsel.

 _The specification: In that Sergeant Jonathan E. Martell, U.S. Marine, did, at or near Combat Outpost Asadabad, Afghanistan, on or about 1 March 2003, without proper authority, knowingly committed violations of UCMJ, Articles 114 and 118._

Zegareli brushes the information off in her response to HR, reminding the rep that they're not hiring a soldier, they're hiring an actuary and Martell comes highly recommended. The HR rep's reply is short: you might want to look-up Article 118.

Anita has wondered how Jonathan managed to get the actuary job for quite some time. One would think the only financial risks a disgraced marine could statistically analyze are those caused by bullets and bombs. What would a top ranking investment bank see in him? And then to make him chairman, it doesn't make sense. Clearly he had some pull from someone on the inside. But who? Zegareli? And in that case, is she the mastermind behind it all?

Anita really should let it go. The case is out of her jurisdiction, and she was specifically told to leave Jonathan to the AG. But her gut nags and her grandchildren with their health and long, bright futures stare.

She picks up the phone and buzzes her assistant.

"Please tell me you're calling to wish me a wonderful evening," he answers warily.

"I need you to get me Jonathan's education records and anything you can on his court-martial conviction, specifically this violation of military justice code, Article 118."

"I thought the Paulsen case has gone up a level."

"It has, so try to keep it discreet."

"Discreet?"

"Yes, Adam. Discreet. As in don't make a big song and dance out of it."

"And how exactly does one ask for military documents discreetly? I mean, I could break into Fort Hamilton and steal them, I guess, but if I got caught it would be very indiscreet, don't you think?"

"Adam."

"Yes?"

"Just get it done."

"Yes, ma'am."

II

It's 7:53 p.m. and Donna walks from the outer edge of Chelsea through the tree-canopied brownstones of West Village.

It never fails to amaze her how suddenly the city can morph. Very few buildings on this side of town reach over ten stories, giving the illusion she's escaped the big city and entered another place altogether. The night is clear enough that she can almost make out Canis Major in the southern skyline by the distant, small glint of Sirius — brightest of all stars, and yet it can barely outshine the pollution of light cast by Manhattan.

As she walks, Donna tries to bring back the feeling she had hours prior – the surge of hope, the sense that life, after all the grief and loss she'd experienced over the years, was about to start again. But the feeling is lost. The happiness she imagined with Harvey was a delusion. Still, as much as it hurts, she doesn't blame him. She's a product of the things she's done, and he reacted just as she always expected he would. A person can only forgive so much.

On the corner of 7th and Leroy, Donna passes a packed and bustling Irish pub and circles behind it. She stops and knocks at an unmarked door. A young man in a short-sleeved dress shirt and vest greets her. "Your name?" he asks.

"I don't have a reservation," she says. "I'm an old friend of Hisako. Is she here?"

The bouncer gives Donna a skeptical look and then disappears. A few minutes later, a firm-faced Japanese woman materializes in the doorway.

" _Donna-san_." The old woman's severe expression splits with a grin. "How long it has been!"

Donna bows and returns her smile. "I'm sorry for showing up like this, Hisako. I happened to be in the neighborhood and didn't have a chance to make a reservation. I don't want to be a bother—"

"Don't be ridiculous." She motions Donna inside.

They descend a basement stairwell, emerging into a short candlelit tunnel that opens into the seating area beyond. It's comically dark and cramped, reminiscent of prohibition era speakeasies. The walls and ceilings are black, and aside from the spotlight shining on the small stage at the rear, the bar's only illumination are the numerous candles flickering on the tabletops.

The maître d gestures for Donna to have a seat near the right-hand side of the stage. "I've missed you," she says, joining her. "Tell me, do you still play like an angry Bill Evans?"

Donna laughs. "No, I…" She glances down at her hands, trying to recall a time when they danced across the keys of a piano, and can't — those were someone else's hands. "I don't play anymore."

"A shame," Hisako says. "And a mistake. Like the best of confidants, a piano doesn't run when you bare your soul. You should have learned this from _anata no go-shujin_." Your husband.

There must be a word for ex-husband in Japanese, but Donna doesn't know it. And even if she did, she's not sure she'd correct her.

"I doubt my soul is something people want to hear," Donna offers bleakly, imagining the sound is like the saddest cadence of a funeral hymn.

"And what if Clara Schumann said the same after Robert passed? Grief is human, _Donna-san_ , and that raw honesty is what we find in the best compositions." Hasiko reaches across the table and pats Donna's hands. "Besides, how else will your soul reach Alice if not through music?"

Donna nods, squeezing the old woman's hand in acknowledgment, but finds herself desperate to change the subject. "Is he on tonight?"

Hasiko smiles softly. "I suspect you wouldn't be here if you didn't already know the answer to that question."

"He's a man of habit, isn't he?"

The old woman winks. "Most fools are."

They keep the talk small and eventually Hasiko excuses herself to take care of what looks like the remnants of an office party. Donna sits back, sipping Chai tea and marveling at how, after all this time, things haven't really changed. It feels surreal, almost like slipping through a gap in time. She stares out at the small stage, the black piano, and becomes flooded by once-pleasant memories that are now tinged with something incomprehensibly painful.

At some point the lights dim and Jonathan walks out. The crowd is full of the sort of aficionados that know better than to clap for his entrance and instead fall into reverent silence. They eagerly lean in as he takes his post behind the piano. His fingers rise over the keyboard and Donna waits with bated breath, her heart racing — how he can still draw such a visceral response out of her, even with all the years and wreckage between them, is a little unsettling. It must be true, then, what they say about first love: the eternal flame. She thinks of Harvey and their carefully cultivated slow burn; how they'd endured over a decade of metamorphosis, only to burst out of the confines of their cocoon — beautiful, fragile, improbable — born to live but a single day.

Jonathan's hand descends and something tolls from deep within the piano. The sound is soft, calming, his fingers languidly float across the keys creating an atmosphere within the dark room that feels almost ethereal. The music sways, a cool summer breeze. It feels to Donna like being fifteen, driving down the Berlin turnpike with the windows down in his lifted Ford truck. He's smoking one of the hand-rolled cigarettes he bought back with him from Bosnia, the smoke as gray as his eyes, and when he turns to her and smiles it is so breathtaking and rare she feels the need to kiss him, inexpertly, but with great force.

His pace quickens, blisteringly fast and precise, the crescendos jolt and crack through the darkness, like a lightning storm corrupting a peaceful blue horizon. It seems he's looking for something, like he lost his tranquil rhythm and he's desperate to find it again. His fingers do a painfully exquisite dance to up-end every key. Searching and searching, and then, it's like he hits this point where he realizes there's no going back, whatever he once had is now gone. His fury loses wind, falls like an exhale into a fine wisp of a melody. It's sad, but it's a beautiful sadness – a wise, accepting sadness that somehow leaves you both yearning and fulfilled.

Jonathan's last note is met with perfect silence, as if the room needs a moment to let his profound composition sink in, before the burst of applause. Some whistle, others shout "Bravo, Maestro!" Jonathan stands and gives a curt, soldier-like bow and exits the stage. But the audience won't stop applauding until he returns with an encore of Thelonious Monk's _'round Midnight_.

After the encore, Jonathan makes his way to Donna's table and takes a seat as if it's the most natural thing in the world to be meeting her here. He's wearing a dark suit—new, bespoke—without a tie, the top buttons of his dress shirt undone enough that she can see the beginnings of the tattoo on his left chest. Decorative Arabic, the Pashto saying, "bury me." He got it shortly after becoming sergeant and meant it to mean he'd be the first to die in his squad. Donna hated it, but hated the devastating irony it later represented more. Despite the tattoo, with his perfect posture and serious demeanor, he keeps hold of a subtle and understated elegance. If he's at all surprised to see her, he doesn't show it.

"You hungry?" he asks.

"Yes."

"Me too." He waves down the waiter and they order spring rolls and satay chicken. Jonathan choses a King's County bourbon. Donna sticks with her tea.

"Sort of pushing yourself, aren't you?" he says once the waiter departs. "Showing up here. Seeing me again. It can't be easy."

"There are worse things," Donna admits, thinking about the wounded look on Harvey's face after she told him the truth about Russo. "Did Mel tell you she hired new counsel?"

"Really?" Jonathan feigns nonchalance. Donna sees that he is set to guard the details of his knowledge, to make her pull the facts out of him one by one.

"I want to know why."

Her tone is more forceful than she intended, but Jonathan doesn't seem to notice. He studies her, shrouded in his habitual somber silence. His expression is placid, almost empty. He feels nothing for her. Donna tries to feel nothing too, but even thinking this, she can only picture running into his arms each time he came home from deployment, how he'd squeeze her so tight she swore he was never going to let her go.

She folds. "Johnny, please."

An almost imperceivable softness rises within his cool stare. He sighs. "Our general counsel resigned."

"Why?"

"Officially he cited some bullshit ethical dilemma. Unofficially it appears he was paid-off and acting in bad faith."

"By who?"

He shrugs. "Whichever shareholder is the most red-handed, I'm assuming. It's hard to say. I'm not exactly kept in the loop these days."

The waiter brings Jonathan's bourbon and sets it down before him. He picks up the tumbler and takes a slow sip. "I'm guessing your next question is why Harvey?"

Donna nods. "I wouldn't call Pearson Specter Litt pick of the litter at the moment."

"That's certainly putting it mildly."

Donna tries not to take offense. "I know Mel wants to get under my skin, but hiring a corporate attorney for a criminal case seems reckless."

"Does it? The truth is just another commodity and the corporate attorneys of New York know how to tip the scales of justice better than anyone." He shrugs. "Besides, Harvey has a special interest in this case which would make him difficult to be enticed by monetary gain."

Donna knows by 'special interest' he means her. "You're forgetting I used to be one of you. We kept general counsel to have someone to blame if things went badly. Harvey's just a high paid scapegoat."

"Aren't we all," Jonathan muses.

"I told you I didn't want him involved in this."

"Yeah. I heard you. Thing is, I'm not in the business of babysitting your boyfriend."

"He doesn't realize what he's getting himself into, Jonathan."

"Whose fault is that?" He cocks an eyebrow. "Mine? Because I didn't stop you from running off with the poor dumb fuck?"

Some ancient bitterness erupts inside Donna, the need to protest overpowers her shame. "You keep blaming me for leaving you, but the way I remember it, you pushed me out."

"Did I? How heartless of me. Should've just let you jump."

Donna traces the edge of her teacup with an index finger, her expression carefully blank. She thinks his words should hurt, but in the numb state she's in, nothing can touch her. She feels a sort of hollow choked hilarity at the thought, and with it her need to argue dissipates. "We better be careful, as petty as we're sounding, people might think we actually loved each other."

Jonathan affords her an expression of mild amusement that's not quite a smile. Accepting the truce, he changes subject. "What's with the tea?"

"Changing my ways."

"Right. Still hung over from your super villain debut, I'd wager."

"You know me too well."

"Unfortunately."

Donna smiles. In the end, there's no one who understands you more than the one who has seen you at your worst. The thought moves her to confess, to open up, "I've really hit bottom here. Forty years old and I'm still as lost as the day she died."

Jonathan shakes his head. "You're not lost, Dee. You're right here, buried underneath a know-it-all corporate secretary and self-loathing. You might be a little bent out of shape, but you don't go through what you've gone through without getting a few dents."

Donna stares into her ex-husbands steady gaze, mesmerized by the glow of his silver irises in the flickering candle light. Sitting with him at their corner table she suddenly feels safe and warm, as if having slipped into a secret sanctuary. "I think I'm cracked more than dented," she says. "Like an egg, I can feel it all oozing out of me. Soon I'll be nothing but shell."

"Humpty Dumpty," Jonathan says idly, then tosses his drink back and signals for another. "Hitting bottom can be liberating, if you let it. It means you can't get any lower."

"Yet I keep finding a way. Have you seen our exposé?" Donna pulls a magazine she got from a sidewalk news stand out of her purse and slides it across the table.

"'The evil COO and her hell hound,'" he reads. "Intriguing. They captured your good side, at least. You're tits look great."

"Oh, I know. My one saving grace. Nifty tits."

Jonathan laughs at this, a deep, soft chuckle, genuine in its rarity. Donna bathes in it like a kind of light, laughing too.

A moment later the waiter brings out the appetizers and drinks. They fall quiet for a few minutes, picking at the food while it's still warm. It would seem neither of them had eaten in days with how quickly they inhale what's on their plates.

Eventually Jonathan says, "Tell me something, Donna."

"Yes?"

"What is it you want from me? Bearing in mind I'm under no obligation."

Donna lays her half-eaten spring roll back down on her plate. "As shocking as this might sound, I'm not here because I want something. Mel's pushing to have me testify against you. I thought you'd want to know."

"Nothing an email or a phone call can't convey. Not that I'm not flattered, but…" He trails off, waiting for a reply.

"I guess part of me must miss you a little bit," she says, more honest than she means to be.

Jonathan leans back in his chair, his fingers laced behind his head, and stares at her, weighing this information. "Well, the way I see it, we don't owe each other shit, so if you and Harvey want to make me the enemy, then go right ahead."

Donna sniffs anger here, a sudden coldness creeping into the refuge. She has worn her welcome, and decides to bail before another fight erupts. "There is no me and Harvey," she tells him, standing. "There's only me and the decisions I've made. That's the thing with middle age, I think, you start to realize this life is yours and yours alone. I figure it's time I take some responsibility and stand by the consequences of my mistakes."

Jonathan says nothing, he simply sits there, giving no indication that he's heard her, or even that he's aware she's stood to leave.

Without thinking Donna reaches out and places her hand over his. "It was a gift to watch you perform tonight. I hope one day I can keep hold of the brief peace I felt listening to you play."

Jonathan twists his hand around, allowing the pads of his fingertips to slide along her palm. Her body hums. "There is no peace for us, Donna," he says. "Not after what we've done."

III

There's rain coming, Harvey can taste it in the air.

He kicks a few pebbles on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets as he drifts through the dark streets of New York, not knowing where he's going, not caring.

Since reading Donna's letter his anger has faded, leaving him feeling…guilty, mostly. But it's still difficult for him to make the connection. There are two Donna's in his head, like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and he swings between the two like a pendulum, feeling betrayed by one and deeply sad for the other.

He presses his palms to his eye sockets; the exhaustion of the past few weeks seems as if it is seeping into his bones. It's gotten impossible to know whether he's going backward or forward. His life is all in the wrong order. A kaleidoscope of thoughts and feelings and minutes and clumsy missteps – everything is shifting and moving out of his control. _Jesus_ , how can one person derail him like this?

But it's his own fault for relying on her too much. He never thought to stop, he never thought to think. She did all that for him. Bearing her burdens, bearing his. And he loved her like an afterthought, something he'd sort out and explore when it suited him.

Maybe he's the one in the wrong. Good, bad, it's all about perspective, isn't it?

Harvey stops, pausing to take in the feel of the cool evening air, and finds himself near Penn Station. He had unconsciously been moving northwest, as if there is some invisible force ceaselessly pulling him toward her. It makes him wonder if maybe they were inevitable – two lost souls destined to seek each other out. He wonders where he'd be if he hadn't met her – who he'd be – and the version of himself he envisions is a man he's lucky not to know.

Who saved who, really?

In the midst of these tangled thoughts, Harvey glimpses the lofty, slender spires of St. Michael's, brazenly piercing into the night sky. He rounds a corner and there the old church stands, silent and strangely peaceful at the center of the bustling city. Without thinking he crosses the street. It's after hours, so the wrought iron fence is locked, but he simply hops over it and up the stone steps to the graves within.

As he moves through the necropolis the sound of the city grows distant and detached, until eventually he reaches a silence so thick his footfalls seem almost disrespectful. Weaving around plots and markers he gets the sense there is no end. It stretches out before him, a city of its own, filled up with avenues of the dead.

He moves deeper into the gloom, directionless, yet as if silently beckoned he has no difficulty finding what drew him in.

The headstone is young by the standard of those surrounding it, but already it is darkened with pollution. Harvey reaches out and runs his fingers over the raised lettering.

 _Alice Martell_

 _1999 - 2006_

"Hey, Champ," he whispers. "It's been a long time."

IV

 _It is one of those midsummer days where the simple act of breathing makes you break out in a sweat – the heat is miserable, sweltering. The pedestrian traffic on Baxter and Worth sharply maneuvers around one another, as thick and aggressive as the humidity._

 _Outside the district court, Harvey catches sight of an officer he's never seen before monitoring the entrance – a hard-faced youth doing his very best to make it look as if he's guarding the Pentagon. Harvey glances down at the child beside him, who is lost in a noble yet futile battle against the heat to devour her vanilla cone._

" _Careful," he tells her, "you're going to get your dress dirty."_

 _Alice takes one last slurp and hands the mess off to Harvey. He throws it in the bin beside him. "Alright, punk, listen. Frank isn't on today, so we have to utilize peak stealth. You got me?"_

 _Alice nods,_ I got you _, and pushes her child-sized Ray Bans – an exact match to Harvey's — up the bridge of her nose. "We're sneakin' in?"_

" _Something like that," Harvey says as he starts up the stone steps. "Just stay behind me and be cool."_

 _They manage to make it up to the glass front doors and half a step over the threshold when a bulky uniformed arm slings out to bump across Harvey's chest._

" _Hey, man, hold up." The guard points to a sign near the entrance: Federal Property Rules and Regulations. He taps a sausage sized index finger at the prohibited section. In amongst firearms and explosives, just after soliciting, vending and debt collection, Harvey reads 'children under the age of 12'. "You can't bring your kid in here."_

 _Harvey lifts an eyebrow. "What kid?"_

 _The security guard now shifts the sausage finger to Alice, who turns around, a mastermind, seeking this poor prohibited child elsewhere._

" _Wait, are you talking about…" Harvey shields an indiscreet gesture toward the little redhead._

 _The guard gives a curt nod._

" _She's not a kid. She has a rare form of dwarfism and she's very sensitive about it. So if you just let us by, we'll forget you insulted her."_

 _GI Joe ignores this, and says to Alice, "How old are you, Miss?"_

" _Thirty-two," she answers. Not a beat missed._

 _Although twelve would have been the smart answer and still ridiculously improbable, Harvey can't help but feel proud of the kid's confidence._

" _Thirty-two," the guard repeats slowly, letting the statement hang as if to give the child room to reconsider._

" _Thirty-two," Alice says again, firmer, and now it is her waiting for him to reconsider. Harvey thinks this face-off is pretty bold for a little girl and fights a laugh._

 _The officer decides to entertain her. "All right. How about you show me some ID?"_

 _Alice pats her exceptionally pocket-less dress, then glances up at Harvey in mock surprise._

" _Don't tell me you left it at the bar?"_

" _Dang it. I must've."_

 _Harvey exhales theatrically and shakes his head, giving the bailiff a companionable look that says 'can you believe this shit?'_

 _The guard folds his arms, unamused. "No ID, no entry."_

" _Officer, look." Harvey grabs the man by the shoulder and leans in conspiratorially. "I get firearms and explosives, but an innocent child?" As if on cue, Alice removes her sunglasses and gives the man a few bats of her lashes. "What is she going to do? Kill the judge with her cuteness?"_

" _I don't make the rules, sir."_

 _Harvey mutters a curse and glances down at his watch. In less than thirty minutes he has an appointment with Judge Taylor, a notoriously bad-tempered man, to try to convince him to dismiss evidence in a high profile narcotics case. He can't afford to be late._

 _Harvey turns and descends the steps, taking them at a near run. Behind him he can hear Alice breathing and feels her struggle to keep up._

" _Where are we going?" she pants._

 _Seeing the crosswalk is red, Harvey slows his pace and lets her catch up. "Back to the DA so Bertha can watch you."_

" _But I wanna stay with you."_

" _You should have thought about that before you told the guard you were thirty-two."_

" _I was going with the age of my soul."_

 _Harvey stops at the intersection and looks down at her shiny copper head. "You have a ketchup stain the size of Jupiter on your dress. Four would have been a stretch."_

" _It's picante sauce," she says, glaring up at him. "I had to spit it out, it was too spicy. I coulda died."_

 _Harvey shakes his head, jabbing the push-to-walk button while simultaneously watching the second hand tick away on his watch face. Sweat drips down the small of his back, ruining the starch-press of his collared shirt. A bubble of irritation and anxiety erupts inside of him. He begins to see his impending lateness as a smudge on his career, a ball and chain that he'll have to drag his way up Wall Street. Burn a bridge with a judge this early as an attorney and you can forget becoming a litigator. All of his painstaking years spent at Harvard studying IP law, for nothing. He'll be shoe horned into estate planning, or worse, bankruptcy. No one in bankruptcy gets their name on the wall; people in bankruptcy get gray hair at thirty-five and never break a million._

" _Let's cross," Harvey says, growing impatient._

" _But it's still red."_

" _Don't argue." He pushes off the curb and onto the white painted tar, causing a bus up the block to hiss with its brakes. At the height of the sound, Harvey feels something— small, warm – grip him._

 _He looks down and sees that Alice has slipped her hand into his. The contact takes him by surprise. He feels himself almost physically pulled back by the simple unexpectedness of it._

 _Staring down at that tiny hand, an odd sensation begins to take ahold of Harvey, as if this kid has instead reached out and touched his soul. It's an intense feeling he's never experienced before – a sort of clarity. His lateness suddenly seems a small matter; the heat no longer bugs him. His future, his career, his problems are all irrelevant. The only thing that matters is getting this little girl safely across this busy intersection. The weight he puts on this duty is probably melodramatic, yet it feels wholly insufficient. All at once he understands what it must mean to be a father – to have a purpose higher than the egoic self. And surprisingly he's not afraid or intimidated by this, but strangely liberated._

 _Alice notices him staring and says, a little defensive, "I can't cross on my own until I'm nine."_

" _Okay."_

 _A tender blush creeps up her freckled cheeks, deepening the blue of her eyes. "It's for safety."_

" _Sure." Harvey gives her hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze. "We'll wait for the green light."_

 _Alice nods and looks off, as if bugged by her own childishness. This kid is too big for her own skin, Harvey thinks, knowing the feeling too well himself._

 _The light changes and they walk, hand-in-hand, back to the DA. The closer they get to the public building, the more Harvey finds himself dragging the kid, who in her earnest self-pity cannot find the energy to lift her feet._

" _It's not fair," she pouts. "I wanna meet Judge Taylor too."_

" _Next time," Harvey promises, coaxing her into his office._

 _She collapses into his high-backed chair, sending it into a spin. "You'll be back before I go, right? To wish me luck?"_

" _What do you need luck for?"_

 _Alice juts out a leg to stop her rotation and ends up kicking the file cabinet. A line of constitutional law books fall like dominos, knocking his autographed Todd Hundley baseball to the floor. Harvey swallows a groan. "My championship game is tonight," she tells him, ignoring the mess. "Against those dummies at Lady Pompeii. They got a nine year old on their team – Jacob Cushman Jr. He calls me cyborg because of my port. I hate his guts."_

 _Harvey glances at the clock. "How about I wish you luck now?"_

" _I don't want to hear it now. I'm too upset."_

" _Jesus, you're dramatic."_

" _Am not. You're just a jerk – dumpin' me here with all these bozos. I thought we were pals."_

" _I tried to take you," he argues pathetically. "You're the one who screwed it up with that age of your soul nonsense."_

" _It's not nonsense," she says. "I'm very mature for my age."_

" _You literally had to hold my hand to cross the street."_

" _For safety," she repeats, growing red again. "The Times says pedestrian traffic deaths are up seven-point-five percent."_

" _Oh, really? Well, too bad your height isn't up seven-point-five percent."_

" _Too bad your tie is a knock-off."_

 _Harvey goes cold at this. "What?"_

" _I wasn't gonna say anything because I know how sensitive you get, but I can totally tell."_

 _He points to his chest. "This tie?"_

 _She nods._

" _This is Ferragamo."_

" _More like Ferra-fako."_

" _I spent a whole paycheck on this tie."_

" _Guess you're a sucker."_

" _You little gremlin." He pulls his knot lose and rips the tie from his collar. Staring down at the tag, which admittedly, looks stitched a little wonky, he sees Ferragamo is spelt with one 'r' instead of two. "Shit, I think you're right."_

 _He tosses the tie into the waste basket and the kid hands him a spare out of his desk._

" _Does it match?" He asks, tugging the spare to his neck._

" _I wouldn't have picked it if it didn't match," she says firmly._

 _He shakes his head at her. "Smart-ass."_

 _She takes this as an insult and with a sharp glare swivels around so that he faces nothing but the back of the chair, dismissed from his own office._

 _Harvey edges toward the door, but in his exit is provoked by insecurity and perhaps a residual need to smooth things over, and asks, "Is it straight at least?"_

 _She swivels back to face him, and with a level gaze, surveys the angle of his tie._

" _Come here," she says._

 _He goes to her, rounding his desk, and she lifts herself to stand at the seat of the chair in order to reach him._

 _Carefully she stretches up and twists his tie to the middle, her little pink tongue poking out to the side in concentration. Harvey finds himself smiling as he watches her work._

" _Forgive me," he says softly._

" _Take back those mean things you said."_

" _How can I?"_

" _Come to my game tonight."_

" _Tonight?" Harvey hesitates, trying to think up an excuse that won't make her too sore._

 _She peaks up at him, her eyes gleaming a big hopeful blue. "Oh please, Harvey?" she begs. "Please?"_

" _But it's weird, isn't it?"_

" _What's weird?"_

" _Me, just showing up."_

" _But we're best buds."_

" _What's your mom going to think?"_

" _That you're dreamy and you make her heart hiccup."_

" _Jesus." He laughs, scared. "You're still on that kick?"_

 _She stares at him, grinning wide and mischievous, and he feels like she knows things he doesn't – where Atlantis is buried, who killed 2Pac, that his goddamn tie is a knock-off._

 _He feels himself cave. "Are you gonna crush Junior if I go?"_

 _Her grin grows remarkably wider. She knows she's got him. "I'll knock his teeth out."_

" _That's a little extreme, but I dig your enthusiasm."_

" _So you'll go?"_

" _Yeah," he tells her. "I'll be there."_

V

Harvey stands before Alice's grave in silence, feeling like he's reached some sort of end – a conclusion he knew was inevitable but that he refused to fully believe in.

Feeling sick with the weight of what's before him, he sinks to his knees — Russo forgotten, the firm forgotten, Donna forgotten, everything forgotten but the single oppressive fact that a little girl had lost her life and there isn't a damn thing anyone can do to make her story turn out differently.

Nor the stories since, and how many lives would be different if she had just lived _._

Memories pour through Harvey in segments, the details flashing through his mind like snapshots.

Her tiny feet swing, brazenly pressing the tips of silver chucks into his untailored slacks. He sees greenness and a sweltering summer sun. There's a perfect pitch thrown underhand by his old man. Alice swings and misses, swings again and the ball soars, and Harvey's heart soars, and she soars into his arms. He sees her eyes, blue as an ocean, when lifted to his, swallow him whole.

Then there is the mechanical push of a respirator, the crowding of IV poles, a hospital bed. His name whispered through cracked lips, pulled past an unknowable pain to form a genuine smile. She cries when she tells him she's dying and he cradles her copper head and fights his own tears. But when she falls asleep, he breaks, palms pressed to his forehead. It's only when he glances up that he realizes she's staring at him.

The mother.

Looking into her eyes, Harvey swears the ground tips and he is falling, truly falling so goddamn quick stopping isn't an option. Loving her isn't an option. It is like those dark eyes are a black hole, stealing every atom of his being.

Then again, months later, he feels that same molecule breaking pull from across the bar, and says, "I'm sorry, do I…?"

And she hesitates, and he hesitates, and some kind of unspoken agreement passes between them.

 _No. No, definitely not._

The pendulum swinging in his head abruptly freezes and he experiences that same clarity he felt on that busy street corner, as if those tiny fingers have stretch themselves from beyond the grave to once again take hold of his soul. He sees and understands and knows and almost laughs at the obviousness of it all.

Of course Donna is Alice's mother. _Of course._ He should have known all along, and maybe he did. Maybe he has worn this fear every single moment since the day he met her, but kept the knowledge at a distance, like an unwanted house guest.

A breeze sighs through the cemetery. Harvey presses his palms to his forehead and stares at the ground. "I'm sorry," he says. "God, I'm so, so sorry."

His words fall flat in the silence. He's not even sure who he's apologizing to, he's just sorry about the whole goddamn thing.

He sits there quietly for quite a while, until he finds the courage to pull Donna's letter out and read it over again. He traces his fingers over her words, following the relaxed slant and elegant loops as familiar to him as his own handwriting, if not more.

When the rain starts, he stands. His legs feel stiff from the cool ground and he has to massage the blood back into them.

On his way out, he touches the top of Alice's headstone and stares at it for a long time.

"I couldn't save you," he says, "but I swear I'll do whatever it takes to save your mom."

And as he travels back through the graveyard, he senses his grip on the world restore. He's still entirely out of his depth – a New York corporate attorney taking on the United States in a treason lawsuit is unheard of – yet there's no doubt in his mind –

He's going to win.

VI

Jonathan watches Donna leave, drinking down the last of his bourbon, her words "It's time I face the consequences of my mistakes," replaying in his head. As cryptic as it all seems, he knows exactly what she's planning.

He sets down his empty glass and grips it tightly. She's not your problem, he tells himself. You don't need to say anything. Just let her go. You'll never see her again.

Except, the truth is he'd always be seeing her. He can't get away from her. She haunts him. Floats through the walls he built over the years as quiet and tangible as a chill.

"Fucking woman," he mutters. Then he throws a couple bills on the table and follows her out.

The smell of wet pavement hits Jonathan as he steps onto the stylish redbrick street. The rain, still in its infancy, is too light to feel, but can be heard pattering against the leafy canopy above. Donna stands at the curve of the street corner, her red hair looking almost rose gold beneath the lamp light; her hand is lifted for a cab.

Jonathan lights a cigarette. The smoke pours through the dark street and pollutes the smell of the summer rain. When he reaches Donna, he clears his throat and says, "I suppose it'd be stupid to stop you, seeing as you turning yourself in would keep me out of prison."

She doesn't look at him, but continues to gaze up the street. Her profile has a sharpness to it – a look of defiance. "I just want this all to be over," she tells him.

"And what about Harvey?"

She regards him then. The indeterminate hazel color of her eyes has settled beneath the strong light of the overhead into a murky green. "I told you, there is no me and Harvey."

"Does he know that?"

She turns her attention back to the street. "He"—she takes in a breath, trying to work past the threat of tears.

Jonathan answers for her. "You told him about Russo and now he's pissed." He takes a drag of his cigarette and shrugs. "He'll get over it, Dee. Once you care, you always care. That's how stupid we are."

She nods and nods, tears spilling over her lids.

He thinks he gets it now. "You're not facing shit, are you? You're running."

"What choice do I have? I can't go back to being a secretary, and even if Harvey does forgive me, I don't deserve him." She runs a hand through her hair, breathy and electric with frustration. Her gaze flicks briefly back to his and seems to look through him, her eyes lifted at such an angle the color is stolen from them. "This is it for me – prison. That's all there is."

Jonathan's face remains impassive as he takes another pull of his cigarette, but behind his unlined brow a vestigial twinge of anger rises up at hearing her resignation. He tilts his head upward, allowing a great cloud of smoke to curl from his mouth like a pale blue pillar. Watching the smoke dissipate, he says, "Giving you up was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do."

Donna blinks as if she hasn't the slightest idea what he means. "What?"

"The divorce," he says. "I didn't want it. I wanted to drop down on my knees and beg you to come home, but the pain of losing you was worth it in my head if it meant you got to have an after. And now you've got the fucking audacity to sabotage your whole life because things are getting too real with Harvey."

Turning full toward him on that redbrick sidewalk, her expression seems to swing from shock to hate. "The pain of losing me," she repeats. "You can't be serious? At the end, I swear, it was like you didn't love me at all."

"Maybe it just never occurred to you," he says mildly. "You've never been good at seeing past your own pain."

Ironically it's like she doesn't hear him, her eyes lost in those dark sockets. In her contemplative silence Jonathan takes one last drag at his cigarette, and then stubs it out against the lamp post.

"You know what's strange?" she finally says, "I can't even pinpoint when it happened. Was it the fight we had before that last hockey game? Before that? Some time after? If I had just listened to you, if I just let her go, would everything have been different with us?"

"The past is the past," Jonathan says. "Having those answers won't change it. We were headed that way no matter what we did."

"I know that's what you'd like to think."

"It's the only way to think."

This sets the tears flowing again. She takes a deep breath to steady herself. "I didn't want to lose you."

"You haven't lost me," he tells her softly. "I'm right where you left me."

"You know what I mean."

"The divorce? That's just paper, Donna. We had a baby together, a friendship, ran a New York bank with no qualifications and broke a sixty-five page indictment worth of laws. Those things don't just get erased. What we have is forever."

Donna swallows and looks away. The rain has picked up, falling into a heavy climax all around them. People start to duck beneath awnings and hide under their coats. A group of young men stumble past; one of them eyes Donna curiously, probably wondering whether the wetness streaming down her cheeks is tears or the rain. Music leaks from the pub across the street – _half priced Guinness_ is advertised in desperate red letters near the entrance and something else, _vote for_ …, but it is raining too hard to read. Donna asks, "Would you do it all again?"

"A thousand times over," he admits.

She nods at his answer. "Me too."

With her still looking off, Jonathan gifts himself a moment to take her in, following the curve of her cheekbone with his eyes, trying to burn all the details into his mind, wanting to have them with him later when she's gone. He thinks of all the things he wishes he could say to her, things he wishes could make a difference, and settles on the only thing that will.

"We didn't have a lot of choices, Dee, and for every choice we didn't have, you have to think of the ones you now do. Prison isn't it for you," he says, and feels his heart break as he sets her free. "Harvey is."

VII

Harvey takes a yellow cab back to the financial district and heads straight for the firm. He plans on getting ahold of Donna's file and submitting any motions he can to keep her case from going federal, but he only gets as far as the glass front doors, when he is stalled by sight of Anita Gibbs arguing with the building's receptionist.

He charges up to her. "What the hell are you doing here?"

The assistant U.S. attorney turns and regards Harvey warily. "I keep asking myself that same question," she says, shoving a manila file at him.

Harvey stares down at the folder, caught off guard. "I thought the case was dismissed," he says lamely.

"It is. But something wasn't sitting right with me, so I kept digging."

Harvey curiously flips open the file and within it finds some kind of military timetable.

"That's Jonathan's deployment record. Most of what he did in the Special Forces is sealed, but I managed to get ahold of these dates."

Harvey lifts an eyebrow, unsure of what she's building to.

"He was meant to be at MIT studying _finance_ , Harvey." She flips passed the timetable and taps on a transcript. "This entire semester, when he was supposedly in Boston, he was actually in Iran."

"Maybe he did an online course?"

"After Mike Ross, I know fraud when I see it."

"So what are you saying?"

She shakes her head. "I don't really know. But I think" – she looks off, trying to grasp the words – "It's too _clean_. The paper trail, the motive, it's like –"

It dawns on Harvey. "They were tailored to be the fall guys."

"Yes." She nods. "Yes, that's exactly it."

With this new information Harvey feels even more anxious to get upstairs and read through Donna's case. He starts for the elevator, but feels something grip his elbow.

He looks over to see Anita staring at him with pursed lips, as if in preparation for a painful admission.

Harvey's heart skips. "What is it?"

"I've heard rumors they're planning on making an arrest tomorrow," she says quietly. "Bail won't be an option."

Harvey takes a step back, shocked by the information, and once again feels torn between Donna and his obligation as an attorney.

"I'm sorry," Anita says, sounding genuine, and then quickly turns to leave.

When Harvey finally finds his voice it sounds hoarse and flat to his ears. "Anita, wait."

She turns around, lips thin with impatience. Harvey struggles for words.

"Don't," she tells him. "For the love of god, let me leave with some dignity."

Harvey nods, feeling his own dignity spared as he swallows down his gratitude. And as he watches Anita push past the glass doors he realizes he has no idea who his enemies are; all the lines are blurred.

* * *

A/N: I'm not sure if any of you have heard of the planning fallacy, but I've definitely fallen victim here. It seems the more I write, the further I feel from ending this thing. But I will get there. Eventually. And I'm so honored and lucky to have people still interested in reading.

Right, so, I know a lot of you were looking forward to the aftermath of Donna's letter, and there will be one, but I took the route I did in this chapter because I felt Harvey had some things to internalize before addressing (or even processing) the heavy truths in Donna's letter.

With that, I'm eager to know what you guys think. Good? Bad? Is it what you were expecting? Theories?

And finally, all my thanks to Kate McK for her infinite patience and expert advice, without which this chapter would be nothing but a series of disjointed scenes and poorly written sentences.


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